My year is up

The child has woken up two nights running, signing for Teletubbies at ungodly hours of the morning and then having a cow when I refuse.  Why oh why did I teach her a sign for them and how on earth do people deal with broken sleep on an ongoing basis?  I feel suicidal and murderous, and I don't even go and get her, Daniel does, he can't resist when she calls for him, in between cries, this heartbreaking little husky "Dad, Dad, Dad".

Hats off, other people and single parents.  Don't know how you do it.

But the real news is that the year of post-pregnancy licence I allowed myself is totally over, and although I have made a few stabs at returning to normality like wearing a BC skirt on Sunday (in which I could not sit down with any degree of comfort) I am sad to accept that direct action must be taken.  I need my waist back, not just an approximation of it and so I have signed up for a 5 week Gutbuster programme (sorry, I know) which I hear is every bit as bad as that horrible woman's Shred thing.  Sigh.  I hate this kind of thing, Ines de la Fresange says that sports are bad for the skin and the heart and I'm sure she's right.  We're meant to externalise some motivation, so here's mine.  Because obviously I'll be going to Rome in designer clothing with the face of an angel once this thing is done.

Images from www.bakhtiarifamily.com

Did I say waist?  This is also a jawline reclamation project.  Cause I don't ask for much.