Wow. You’ve been here six months already. Where the heck has that gone? Probably to the same place that mama’s ability to string a coherent sentence together went. (When exactly does this ‘baby brain’ thing go away? Because it sure would be nice to remember what I’d done in the past week - heck, in the past five minutes would be a plus).
This time last year, you looked like this:
You’ve filled out a bit since then...
Of course, I and the avid two readers of this blog*, have been sorely disappointed that your presence in the world hasn’t turned it into some huhlarious and oft-updated blog about the chaos of early parenthood, but frankly you scuppered all of that by being a shockingly lovely baby. The midwives at the hospital warned us of the “Armageddon” we would face on the second night of your life, when you ‘woke up’ and went on some kind of feeding frenzy to bring my milk in. You kinda grumbled every hour and a half and went straight back to sleep again after we fed you.
* Hi, mom and dad!
Then there’s all the stories of ‘poo-splosions’ we don’t have because you’re quite a conservative poo-er. Well, minus that one bus incident, where there was significant leakage, and papa had to effect a between-stops stealth change. But, come on, everyone’s done that once, right?
You took to breastfeeding like a pro, and survived mama’s complete paranoia over that whole deal admirably well. And now you’re so big! In a very petite kind of way! And you can roll, and drag yourself along the floor, and sort of vaguely sit up, as long as you don’t notice you’re doing it. You make an interesting amount of noises, include a Shining-style “Redrum” inward breathing thing, another inward breathing style excitable squeak, and a highly polished “WAH”! You also say “mam-mam-mam” when you’re upset, which mama is totally taking as your first word - suck it, papa! And you do a great laugh, especially when we do the “zombie eating your guts out” bit, which for some odd reason you find hilarious. Also making you jump brings out the giggles. I’m guessing you’ll be into horror films and Stephen King when you’re older. Just don’t expect me to read you “It”.
We’ve been keeping one of those “Baby’s first year” books with all your little leaps and doings in, but we’re already romanticising it all, truth be told. So here I will record the real truth of your life so far, for posterity and whatnot.
My favourite toys:
Electrical cables, phones, computers, mama’s glasses. Is it dangerous/for grown-ups/going to hurt me? GIMME NOW. Is it soft, plush, colourful, musical, whimsical? Meh, I’m dropping that s*&t on the floor.
My favourite people:
No-one. I will stare unblinkingly into your very soul at your futile attempts to try and make me smile, stranger in the street. I care not that you stopped to tell me how cute I am, or how blue my eyes are. Shrivel under my gaze and feel your self-consciousness slowly making you wither.
Mama and papa are ok, I suppose.
My favourite foods:
What on earth have you just put in my mouth? No, seriously, what is this muck?
My favourite activities:
Pranking papa: See how I’ve dropped that serviette I shouldn’t have been chewing on in the first place? While you reach down to get it, Imma tip that glass of water over so you look like you’ve wet your pants! Who's the baby now, papa?! I’m HILARIOUS!
Being contrary: See how you’ve given me a nice chair to sit in with the dangly toys to play with? Imma tear that bar down and wave it all over the place, narrowly missing smashing my own skull in! HAHAHAHA!
Being a bit, uhm, special: See how I received a gorgeous playmat to play on? Imma shuffle off that every single time, then complain about being on the floor. Or I’ll just straight out chomp it to death...
Places I like:
My house. Mostly. Unless I’m tired, or hungry, or grumpy, then I hate every single place except mama’s arms*.
Yoga - watching mama’s red sweaty upside-down face is hysterical!
The baby music class at the library. Kind of. All the nursery rhyme singing passes half an hour, but don’t expect me to smile about it or anything. And WTF is with that parachute thing you keep waving over me?
Places I don’t like:
The gym crèche. I’m now known as the “sensitive” baby, because I will cry if you leave me in the pram, but DAMMIT WOMAN, don’t pick me up! See what you did? Now I’m crying!
The pram. It’s fine for ten minutes, but then the seat turns to lava - GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT!
The hospital and doctors: every time I go to those places the b*$#@&ds jab me with needles! And mama just stands there laughing as my face turns ever redder and I hold my breath for ages to get myself ready for the loudest yell I can muster. (Ed by mama: In mama’s defence, it’s a super cute face!).