I got a bit stuck the other day. Stuck in an armchair, and couldn't get out. I was pinned down by a bundle of snoring dribbling joy, with sweaty hair plastered to her face, and chronic flatulence. It began as a cuddle, and she fell asleep in my arms. I love when they do that, and felt like the luckiest mummy alive. At first. Until Peppa Pig finished, and it was time for Pingu. I'm really not into Pingu. Anyway, I couldn't reach the remote control, not even by sliding down the chair, and kicking. My mind whirred as I thought of all the things I should have been doing, all that laundry, and the dinner that wasn't going to cook itself. I was itching to finish emptying the bin, to clean the sink and reorganise my pantry. I began to feel hot and flustered, to panic that I would run out of time, fall behind with my work, and never be able to catch up. I had planned my day so meticulously, and there just wasn't time for doing nothing. And then it hit me. I wasn't doing nothing at all. I was loving my baby. I was holding my beautiful baby girl, keeping her warm and safe, and giving her the love and attention that I often berate myself for being too busy to give. This was not nothing at all, but exactly what it is my job and my pleasure to do. And so, I lay my head on hers, and breathed in her sweet smell. I closed my eyes and fought off my demons as I drifted off to sleep. I think perhaps that being stuck is a frame of mind.