I am not a patient person.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re born with a finite amount of patience, or if perhaps we are allocated a certain amount along with the birth of each child, and that I have simply used mine all up. “Congratulations,” the midwife says, placing the sticky, bloody bundle of joy on your loose, scarred stomach, “it’s a girl! You have 1,824 hours of joy and 2,782 hours of patience. Use them wisely.”

If your child is an adorable angel who sleeps through the night and shuns sweets in favour of raw carrot sticks and hummus dip, then you’re fine. You may even find them tolerable into their teenage years. If you have a more ‘sensitive’ baby though, then beware, 2,782 hours isn’t much.

When Belle was a baby, she hated being in the car and screamed at the mere sight of the car seat. The only way to soothe her was to sing the chorus from Agadoo.

“Agadoo-doo-doo, push pineapple shake the tree…”

You know the one.

It’s annoying enough just thinking about it isn’t it? Imagine singing it over and over and over again, accompanied only by grizzly baby noises. It’s a little wearing to put it mildly. Then imagine that when you go to bed that night, that you are woken up every hour by a wriggling baby, rooting incessantly, quiet only when they are chomping on your boob.

2,782 hours really doesn’t stretch that far.

Which is more than can be said for my boob.

For more from Jo Middleton go to www.slummysinglemummy.wordpress.com