I've taken to singing. All the effing time.
I have songs about burps (they're nasty); nappy changes (they're awesome); boredom grizzles; the fear of sleeping; the necessity of sleeping; the insidious and all-too-easily-missed-or-mistaken nature of weariness; socks that won't stay on; the loveliness of whichever drink bottle, chandelier or featureless wall she currently finds fascinating — you name it, I've probably sung about it. An awful lot of my songs are, lately, to the tune of "If you're happy and you know it…"
I am so. utterly. sick. of myself.