There are several reasons why I haven't blogged in a while. To wit, I've been really bloody busy. I mean, really - haven't we all?
Then tonight, I poured myself a comfortingly large glass of red wine and opened up my laptop, keen to breathe out the words that I've been holding in for so long about childbirth, motherhood, emigrating and the working mum paradox.
I'd written eight words when Sam walked in and asked if I was blogging again.
An innocent enough question, you might say. Striking up conversation after a day of work and parenthood.
Though, dear reader, this question was not the only question he'd asked me tonight.
When one is asked:
'Has the dog been fed?'
'Where shall I put this cash?'
'When shall I put Pablo to bed?'
'Is 8oz enough?'
'Will you cut my hair?'
'Are you ready to cut my hair yet?'
'Are you warm?'
'Have we got a £10 note?'
consecutively over a ninety minute period, your conversational budget somewhat depletes.
'Are you blogging again?'
'Yes. Yes I am.'
A kiss on the forehead. 'Good. I'm glad.'
He sits down opposite me. The TV is off. He takes a drink of wine. Looks around the room. Takes another drink of wine.
'So, what about if you and Pablo fly into Madrid and we all drive down from there?'
'Because that way it's less time in the car for Pablo, but we still get a little bit of a road trip.'
'What do you think?'
Evidently, no blogging is happening here because now is the time to discuss travel arrangements to Spain for the forty-sixth time.
An hour later. The dog is satiated, the baby is asleep and the man is engrossed in a drizzly war enactment on the Playstation.
Now is my time to strike. Laptop open. Wine in hand. It's go time.
It's been just over a year since we found out about the pregnancy and this chapter began. Twelve months previous to now, it's likely that I started my morning pale and shaking, throwing up into the sink and tensing like a deer in headlights at any twinge in my stomach.
Now, I am mother to a five month old child, and so I still start my mornings pale and shaking, though nowadays catching someone else's throw-up into my bare hands and tensing like a deer in headlights at any noise that will wake Pablo up before 5:30am.
Now, we've found our stride as parents, gradually, tentatively and not without exhausted, fragmented arguments at 4am about the best way to wind a milk-drunk baby.
Now, we're gently introducing our son to brightly coloured vegetables, belly laughing at his contorted facial expressions and dodging the odd rogue spoonful of mushed up carrots that's heading our way.
Now, we're leaving the village so densely populated with ducks and packing up our house, our dog and our offspring to move down to Spain.
After spending most of 2017 either heavily pregnant, recovering from a messy c-section, working and organising an emigration, I'm beyond tired.
But, unlike a year ago, there is a sage new insight into what being a mother is, into the beautiful, heartbreaking gore that is childbirth. There is the promise of better. There is this blog and there is 2014 Bordeaux from the wine shop a few doors down that is no longer off limits.
And have I got some shit to tell you.