I find it difficult when you break my sleep, every night, and have done so for the last three years, to function in a calm and, well, functioning manner each morning.
I find it even more difficult to determine what it is, exactly, you want when you scream at me “Nilk, want nilk” and flap your arms, but reject every possible receptacle I place said milk into. Including the kitchen sink.
I find this mode of communication difficult to understand, the words you use – or don’t – difficult to interpret. Mostly, I have no idea what the fuck you actually want.
I find it difficult to summon up even the smallest shred of empathy, when you wander off, screaming louder, eyes closed, and walk into to the door frame / stairs / bed.
I find it difficult to read to you, when you scream at me and push me away, despite the fact you demanded I lie there next to you and “read dat book!”
I find it extremely difficult to comfort you with a cuddle when you push and hit.
I find it difficult to “help Thomas” (of the tank engine variety) “up the hill” when it appears he is stuck because he has my left nipple mashed around his rear wheels.
Attempting to wedge Thomas (still of tank engine variety) between my bum cheeks when I attempt to save my boobs from further damage is not helping matters, either.