I don’t write about this boy enough. He’s been around for ten weeks, and it feels like ten years.
He’s fattening up nicely. Fitting into larger clothes than Henry did at the same age. If I go to bed late enough, we’re down to one nighttime feed, and I am so grateful for this I want to kiss his face. He’s awake a lot more now, but no more demanding. His favourite position is sat up on my knee, facing forwards, leaning against my chest. Just watching. I think as he gets older he will learn by watching, and watch carefully until he’s really got it, then try it out himself. That little pixie face makes my insides go funny.
He was a late smiler, and even now he mostly does the lopsided open-mouth half-smile that came first. Every now and again we get a rare, delighted beam, and honestly, it lights up his face like the sun. He is the sort of boy who makes you work for a smile, and also the sort of boy for whom you would work all day to get one.
He still suffers from bad wind – a short dairy-free spell had no effect, which I tried terribly hard to be sad about – and so I walk around jiggling in the evenings, patting his back, avoiding the flying sick which covers his clothes and mine. I’ve started singing ‘Moon River’ to him while we sway together. It is dream-like and quiet and soothing. It suits him, and it soothes us both.
Even though I promised I wouldn’t, ‘Teddy’ morphs accidentally into ‘Teddy Bear’ at least once or twice a day. The poor boy will definitely have to switch to ‘Ed’ when he’s ready to be cool.
If he feels like being a mama’s boy at any point, I think I’d be just fine with it.