It’s been thirteen hours and seventeen days
Since they took the hour away from me
I go out every night from my bed to yours when you call me at 5am or before
And now you’ve messed up my Sinead O’Connor tribute poem too
Okay, fine, never mind. But my point is that it’s been more than two weeks since the hour went back and Mabel still doesn’t seem to have adjusted in the mornings. She broke a run of horrible nights last night by sleeping soundly from bedtime till morning, but morning came at the unreasonable hour of 4.50am, which is not what I would call morning. I nursed her for an hour and then I was drained dry and she was her father’s problem and I got about an hour’s sleep before I had to get up and find out what all the shouting was about.
That moment when you’ve said “Fine, just get in the car naked then,” and your four-year-old leaves the house resplendent in underpants and trailing a big red blanket, and you throw her clothes in the car for when you get there, and then the neighbour across the road comes out and sees you and laughs. And it’s late November, of course. That moment. It’s funny, but only because she’s my second child.
Mabel likes to put her feet in Dash’s shoes and stomp around declaring, in a deep voice as if he’s, you know, at least ten years older than her instead of two and a half, “I’m Dash.” Then she says “I’m really strong,” and “Daddy shouts at me,” to add verisimilitude.
Since the hour’s been gone I can do whatever you want
I get up whenever you choose
I can never eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant
I said nothing can take away these blues
`Cause nothing compares
Nothing compares to you