Hymn

Clocked It

No one explained to S that putting the clocks back meant enjoying an extra hour in bed.  She interpreted the whole thing rather differently.  If you can add a few minutes here, take some away there then this whole Time thing must be a bit flaky, she reasoned.  Not half as rigid as they’d made out.  In fact, a bit of a nonsense.  A truly arbitrary construct, if you will.  And, therefore, something that deserves no respect.  She has burnt her Winnie-the-Pooh clock and is celebrating her new found freedom by waking at 12 and 3am, sleeping throughout the afternoon and pretty much refusing to eat anything at all.  Marvellous. 

Something to Get Your Teeth Into

Little S has been ramming everything she can lay her hands into her mouth for a couple of weeks now.  Teething you see.  She’s particularly fond of gnawing on fingers, preferably not her own.  It hasn’t upset her too much ‘til now.  Tonight she woke up crying.  Not an I’m-hungry cry, not an I’m-tired or Need changing cry; an It-hurts sob.  This wasn’t her asking for attention, she was in pain.

I picked her up and she looked at me through big blue tear-filled eyes.  “It hurts, Daddy, it hurts.  Make it go away.”  She clung to me.  The comfort of being held ebbing and flowing with her aching gums, whimpers sliding into wails and back again.  I’ve never know such vicarious agony.  My Little Girl - in pain.  It hurt so much.

Root of All Evil

Weaning is a great game and she’s doing really well.  She likes carrot.  And sweet potato.  And butternut squash.  She loves pears and apples.  But she’s a Good Christian Girl.  She knows evil when she sees it.  If anyone needed proof of Heaven and Hell, look no further than certain root vegetables.  She won’t touch them: clamps her mouth shut and shakes her head.  It really isn’t a coincidence that parsnip, Swede and turnip is an anagram of “Run! Satan dripping in congealed cat sick.”

Spinning Tot

She's wriggling.  No it's worse than that - she's rolling.  Depending on her mood it's a gentle rock or a violent roll.  We never quite know where we'll find her.  She tends to tell us though, especially when she's arched back like a banana, has rotated 270 degrees and has her foot trapped on one side of her cot and her face jammed against the other.  She doesn't tend to be in a good mood on mornings like these.

Comic

She’s not only a happy baby, she has a sense of humour.  I know I sound like a stuck record (how long will people understand what I mean by that?), but she smiles a lot.  The exceptions are gently morphing - still when tired at bedtime, now after her bath and a new one - whenever I try to capture proof of her contentedness.  Any kind of camera results in a puzzled frown.  Making Daddy look foolish.  Making him pull those silly faces, utter those daft sounds, dance around.  But she won’t flinch as long as there’s a lens there.  Now that’s comedy.

Intoxicating

I’m not tiring of it.  In fact, it’s increasingly addictive but my clumsy words won’t do it justice.  I rush to her room when I hear she’s awake to be greeted by her beaming smile.  I make bizarre noises, pull funny faces and jig impromptu dances just to amuse her, so intoxicating is the resulting giggle.  Often she’ll grin when someone just speaks to her.  Tonight in the bath, she laughed long and hard at the simple joy of splashing in the water.  Her pure unrestrained joy in life is overwhelming.  And it is so so contagious - even a glimpse of her smiling sends my spirit soaring.  It is an astonishing drug.  It makes me so happy I could cry.

Out of Steam

S has had a lovely time exploring new things, or rather, discovering new places to sleep.  She’s slept on the Steamers, she’s snoozed through steam trains; she even dropped off while being carried around in a kangaroo-like pouch up mountains.  Which is great because it means she has lots of energy to scream at bedtime.

Mirror

It’s not just women that flock to Baby S.  This afternoon we sat having a bite to eat with S sitting peacefully in her pram.  Our quiet repast fell to pieces with a piercing shout of “Scarlett” across the bar.  But it wasn’t our little girl being hallooed, no, it was a pretty red-headed toddler who was pulling the most grotesque faces at our bemused Little One.  It was as though our angel was gazing into one of those horrible Fun House looking glasses.

Magnet

I wish I’d known this earlier.  It’s amazing.   Truly amazing.  Carrying a baby and I’m a babe magnet.  It’s astonishing - girls can’t resist coming over to admire my beautiful little bambino.  They smile as they pass me in the street.  They wave.  Not obviously at me but I know that the baby is just an excuse for them.  Naturally T doesn’t mind at all and has agreed to walk 10 metres behind me and not cramp ‘my style.’  Or throw rocks at me.  You decide.

Leave Me to be Happy

S is a beautifully happy baby.  Except for bath time and when she’s tired, that is.  I’m so proud of her smiles.  Everyone, everyone, comments on them.  Today she was chuckling all to herself as she sat on my lap.  The reason: watching the wind blow the leaves and tree branches sway.