Sometimes I just can't write anything because, in all honesty, it's all too overwhelming. Waking up in the morning (having woken up all night long to feed) is overwhelming. A successful bedtime is overwhelming, purely because of the sheer joy I feel when I'm sat down, in front of Eastenders, with a hot plate of food in front of me and the monitor, silent. But then I start to feel the dreaded guilt for enjoying the time to myself. The first time he wakes for a feed I hate that I'm pissed off for being woken up, having just nodded off. I'm overwhelmed at my families' love for him and the quiet chats they have together as I'm allowed a moment to drink a hot drink at a normal pace. I'm overwhelmed when I get it right and we have a successful day of happy smiles and regular bowel movements and comfortable breast-feeds. I'm overwhelmed that one day I won't be breastfeeding him anymore and that other people will be able to do the job: I'm overwhelmed that one day I won't be breastfeeding him anymore and other people will be able to help. I think of something to write every day but being able to write the truth down is a raw and precious thing which makes me feel so bloody vulnerable to criticism that I flinch for weeks, before I take the plunge and post it anyway.