Next stop: Hamlet

I wish.

I used to worry that I wouldn’t give my babies enough attention. That I’d end up with one eye on a screen most of the day, and my offspring would grow up only able to recognise me in profile. But I’ve discovered that babies are quite savvy when it comes to noticing where your attention is, and more pertinently, where it is not. If they’re not getting enough face-to-face time, they will grab your face.

Henry is a face-grabber. I was flicking through some email today and gradually realised that his excitable ‘WHOA. HAVE YOU SEEN THESE FINGERS’ noise had gradually become an ‘OWNER OF THE FINGERS. LOOK AT ME’ noise instead. I did as I was told and looked, but without putting away the computer. The only solution was to cast himself down over the maternal legs in a paroxysm of torment.

I loves me a melodramatic baby. Chip off the old over-acting block. His delight when I go along with it is marvellous.

When I pick him up these days, he thrusts both arms around my neck and as far into my hair as he can, and grabs a big handful with chubby fingers. Then he uses it to pull himself up to my eye-level. He’s got face to grab, and it isn’t going to get grabbed down by my shoulders, is it?

Also, the temperature situation has scarcely improved. I have a secret husband-jumper habit that is bound to be discovered once Timothy notices how many of his jumpers smell like sick.

Peter Rabbit disapproves. But he’s made of fuzzy felt, so what does he know?


Talk to me! I'll put the kettle on.

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