November 22, 2005
Your uncle and aunt (Aunt Vanessa and Captain Kowalski) arrived late on Saturday night, and Emma and Adam early Monday morning.
The house is abuzz with the sounds of holiday makers. The kitchen is reeling from the shock. I think the kettle's already considering going on strike.
We're going to be in the press again, this time in the Northcote Leader, and this time you got to have your own photograph taken instead of only being present in utero.
It's kind of strange, feeling like I'm doing something so unusual that there's interest from the fourth estate. I've been writing this for so long now that it comes almost as a reflex, it seems so normal to me now that I should write to you in this way. I have trouble comprehending that people at large should find it amusing or particularly astonishing that I choose to send you this very long-winded letter.
People keep asking me what my plan for this letter is. When I'm going to decide that it's finished, how I'm going to manage it if we gain another pumpkin. The answer to all of the aforementioned questions, punkin, is simple. I don't know. At least a small part of my brain is suggesting that I will allow you to make that decision. That I'll keep writing this until you're old enough to read it. Certainly, by that time, there will be a considerable archive for you to catch up on. I haven't looked recently, but I'm pretty sure that the length of this narrative is approaching 100,000 words as we speak.
It's something that I'm trying to figure out - how to explain to you what this blog is, why I created it, and what it's trying to do. I printed and bound some of the first posts and gave them to your Nana, but I'm not sure that that would be logistically possible now. You already like books, but it seems that you currently see them more as a culinary delight than an intellectual feast.
With the arrival of your first budding teeth, both top and bottom, you have developed a healthy appreciation for teething rusks, which are currently your absolute favourite food group. Sitting up at the table last night, you were very happy to be having dinner with the grownups, brandishing your rusk like some badge of honour, some token of adulthood. At least, you were until you dropped it on the ground.
It seems that Purdey likes rusks too.