morning head: Saturday, 2nd May, 2015

There’s sweat in the crook of my knees. On the verandah, bright sun and cool spring air; birdsong and cherry blossoms and the smell of new leaves. Coffee. Not enough coffee. There’s never enough fucking coffee.
The wee man is asleep, and I’m using the few minutes of peace I’m going to be allowed today to shlep nonsense instead of trying to make a deadline I’m already past.
Stay at home parenting is not compatible with trying to change the direction of life. The realities of familial responsibility. The cold, hard facts of having to abandon the frivolities of childlessness. Drinking, even in the depressingly small doses I’m permitted these days, kills any chance of success here.
I am reduced, mostly, to night time work. After dark when my brain is sub-optimal, sub-functional even. I drank a beer yesterday evening. A beer and a half actually, not realising that Flying Dog Imperial Porter has an exceedingly high percentage of alcohol by volume. Last night’s work wasn’t.
I might have countered this with coffee, except that I was on morning duty today. We’re on rotation now. Day on, day off. I am attending baby boot camp, apparently, in preparation for my imminent dispatch to the Western Front.
I’m told that having a child, at least in the early years, is effectively an abandonment of all but the most essential of one’s passions or hobbies. All but one. All but that one that you must desperately squeeze in in every spare moment, every three minute stint while the child is on the boob.
I’m having trouble reconciling this with my desperate need to procrastinate, to avoid writing every chance I get.
This might be why I’m still working a day job. This might be why I’m here.
Morning, procreators.