And this is why I never get any housework done. Because I could look at that face all afternoon, and probably will.
This is a delicious day of days. We took Timothy to the train station this morning in our pyjamas and the weather was rotten in that special it’s-January-and-don’t-you-hate-it kind of way. And as we got home and ran back inside and slammed the door behind us, I thought about how many times I’d got up on mornings like this and driven the long dark way to work, wanting desperately to stay at home snuggling a baby instead. And here I was, doing it. Henry was up and down all night – stupid jabs – so we got back into bed and surrounded ourselves with big clouds of white duvet, while the wind howled fury and beat against the walls to be let in. I felt so safe. And so, so grateful to this husband of mine who was sat on a broken-down train on the way to work. He works hard so that, for now, I don’t have to. I’ve always thought it fair that I take care of the majority of the housework as well, since I’m at home, and I don’t even do a brilliant job of that. He never says anything. He’s a beaut.
Also, this baby and his laughing face, and the new bird-of-prey noise he’s so proud of. Also, the fact that I started Great Expectations again, anticipating the usual hard slog, and found out that it was funny and written in a voice I could hear clear and loud in my head. All this time, Dickens, and you’ve finally hooked me by the nose. You sly dog.
It’s the fifth of January, and I’ve got a big crusty pile of washing-up to do, and I’m going to pass the time by rewatching the Muppet Christmas Carol. There’s no one here but me and this sleeping boy and the wind hushing on the windows, and if that’s not undiluted fizzy happiness in an afternoon, I don’t know what is.