Life really gets in the way of writing sometimes, despite my effort to make writing a vital part of life. My daughter has been quite sick. On Friday night, the doctor at the after-hours care centre told us, as curtly as possible without being overtly rude, that she would stop vomiting within the next 24 hours and listed all the signs of dehydration that we could look for "next time". Well, she didn't vomit on Saturday, but she did on Sunday and then again today, but I'll be damned if I'm going to go in again and be told to just wait it out, and sent away again. What's the point?

Her miserable little attitude the past two weeks got me thinking for a while that maybe I wasn't spending enough time rolling around on the floor with her. She's so happy with her dad just laying next to her, but I've tried it and she wants something different from me. She wants me to listen to her. Yes, that sounds a bit silly since she doesn't talk, but she's happiest with me when I'm giving her my undivided attention and responding to her waving arms or ridiculous babbling, but not by saying ridiculous things in stupid baby voices. She wants me to take her seriously. Then she's happy. I understand that. Parents are so prone to duplicity with their children, and it starts in infancy, and probably becomes a deeply ingrained habit. I care a lot about how I'm treated and how I'm spoken to, so the least I can do is not be a hypocrite.

Well, back to trite activities like doing laundry and cooking dinner.