A two week break of doing pretty much nothing definitely has its ups.
Happy new Year!
The problem was, I was sick for pretty much most of it. I managed a record 10 days of all day pyjama-wearing, and for the first time ever, I didn't make any 2016 resolutions; I didn't have thoughts or "reflect on 2015" (publicly or otherwise).
I pretty much ignored the fact that it was a dawn into a new year, without looking back or looking forward at all. Just being in the day. That's never happened before. I usually try and put some effort into trying to be a nicer person or something, for at least a few days.
That'll happen when you're sick, and sick constantly for a couple of weeks on end. You don't care about things like losing weight, breaking bad habits, taking a moment to think about all the good things. You just want to feel better. You only care about your next hot drink and taking another nap.
I genuinely couldn't give less of a fuck.
Perhaps it's my newfound Britishness that makes me slightly cynical about all the upbeat "I'm going to do all the things and be amazing etc etc." It's fucking January in Britain. Have you looked outside? (Mood reflects weather.)
Christmas was fine. It was spent with the Brit's family, and I'll just leave that there for now.
The magical part of Christmas wasn't entirely lost however, because I now have a nearly 2 year old. Who, for the most part, was thoroughly confused by things like flashing fairy lights, conical trees and items wrapped up in gaudy paper.
Once he figured out that the things could be ripped open and a toy or something of equal bewonderment like a TACKTER! (hashtag tractor) would be revealed, therein lay the joy. Of watching a child, as his excited little gasps completely take over his little face.
He also started doing marvellous things like string words together this holiday. Usually he just gets by with one word commands, but has since come up with things like, "Mummy water?" (very handy - he actually tells me when he is thirsty now. This is quite a big thing), or "Daddy pooh?" when Daddy disappears into the toilet. ("That's right, my darling. Daddy is doing a pooh. On the POTTY. Like how you can do a pooh, too.")
Just when I think my kid cannot possibly get cuter or that 'this is the best age, surely', he goes and gets even more adorable and does something wildly developmental, and I think, 'no actually, this is the best age.'
Sebastian is unhinged though. I always knew - just based on mine and his father's personalities alone - that he was going to be an eccentric, if not slightly, hyperactive child.
This is how my son chooses to sit. He pulls his chair up close and kicks back with a book.
"Get off the table, Sebastian."
[cue evil grin. As he stands his ground. On the table. Watching me. Knowing.]
"I'm not telling you again. BOTTOMS DOWN. Get off the table please."
I then have to stand up and wrench him off the table. For the fourth time in that hour. Because even though he knows damn well he shouldn't be up there, it's a really fun little game to watch Mummy try and put her feet up for more than 2 minutes.
But he's also a complete character. He does things that make us burst into fits of laughter on a continual basis. His current catchphrase (ie: the thing he says all the time, all day and everyday), is "Oh dear."
I'll drop something, and somewhere in the background: "Oh dear."
He'll drop something: "Oh dear."
He'll climb onto his chair, huffing and puffing, then sit. "Oh dear" he'll sigh.
I'll shout "Brit! The toast is burning!" ("Oh dear," says a little voice.)
He loves rough and tumble play, begging for the Brit to pick him up and throw him around. He can do that for hours, while we are huffing and puffing after a few minutes.
He is extraordinary. And so damn lovable, even though he can be jolly hard work.
The neighbours were mostly away for Christmas, which meant, in general it was pretty pleasant being at home. Even though the weather was foul and going outside wasn't something that happened on a daily basis.
We even tried to book a sunny holiday to keep the blues at bay yesterday.
"Croatia!" I cried. I haven't been before, and frankly, it's time.
("Where is that," sighs the Brit. "It sounds like one of your weird communist countries again."
It has beautiful beaches and is wedged in next Croatia. But yes, weird.
Then we got bored of all the holiday aggregators and gave up. Will try again this week.
Once we've looked at houses. I'm so excited, but it's time: we are going suburban. In fact, buy me a van.
Or a Range Rover Evoque, if we're choosing.
We've finally signed up for some viewings, decided on where we will be looking (South East London and surrounds, and Kent.)
It's time for a big grown-up house. Without a pyschopath above us, and with some actual space.
And therein, lie all my resolutions. Attached to a new house and what comes with that.