Stuckhome Syndrome

So, since we arriving in DC fiveish weeks ago (as with Louis's age I've stopped counting), I've had probably five offers of potential babysitting. What's more, four of them would set us back no more than the cost of a takeaway pizza. I should be dancing with joy, booking theatre tickets and reading up on the hottest restaurants. But am I?

Um, no. Truth is, I'm suffering from Stuckhome Syndrome. My symptoms suggest it's a classic case of the psychological phenomenon that afflicts 99 per cent of new mums everywhere. Since my life was kidnapped on 5 June, I've become obsessed with my captor (the smiling cherub pictured - at home - above). I'm hostage to his every whim. When he smiles, I smile; when he cries, I cry; when he wakes, I wake. The doctors may have snapped the cord that bound us when they plucked him out, but in truth we are just as tightly attached as ever. 

I've given up even wanting an evening off when the odd time I've made a bid for freedom has ended in tears. His, not mine but they're practically one and the same thing. So while Daddy J jets off to Oxford, Long Island, St Louis, Nashville, Boca Raton and Charleston (West Virginia, not South Carolina luckily, where he is tonight), I'm really much happier here sitting here of an evening staring at my blank cream walls with the TV volume turned down low. Honest! Plus there's always the chance that he might wake and want me. Talking of which I can hear him now....