You fold clothes.
You moisturise the front 2 inches of your hair.
You put away half the folded clothes.
You check for the ninth time that hour if the babies are still breathing in bed.
You scroll through Instagram for an hour that you don’t have.
You stir your fifth mug of tea.
You check for messages in the dissipation that is Whatsapp.
You wonder if time has passed you by.
You attempt to journal.
You whip out your tits for the 16th time that day, might as well leave them hanging out.
You sniff your pits.
You take a shower.
You caress the mollusc that is your abdominals.
You contemplate landscaping your lady bits.
You veto that idea.
It will take too long, the babies will scream and
you’ll probably nick your clit.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
You wakeup to wailing.
You pin the joy on like a quote on cork board.
Maybe laughter is a cure.