I don't know, punkling, that I was prepared for this.
I don't know that I was ready for this.
I don't know that I was in a position to be ok with this. To walk into the living room and see you standing up in your playpen.
Grinning at me.
You're supposed to be an INFANT, punkin, you're supposed to be all helpless and needy and, you know, NEEDY.
For me to feel like I'm somehow superflouous to proceedings, punkin, for me to feel like my presence is no longer required, well let's just say I thought it might take a little bit longer than this. Like maybe until you were 14 and I am the uncoolest man in the world and oh my god why won't I let you paint your room black and have a snake.
(Having said that, bramble, I'm more than likely to let you do both of those things, provided you give me a decent argument in favour of them)
The last few days have been a real trial for us. Christmas is marching towards us at a great rate of knots, the Great AirConditioner Saga continues unabated (along with it's lesser known sequel the Great Dishwasher Saga), your mum's got some sort of a cold and you've picked up some strange rash.
You spent last night tossing and turning and waking up every hour or so. I got up to talk to you at 430, when you woke for what seemed like the 25th time (but which may have only been the 22nd or so) and we spent twenty minutes chatting in the loungeroom. I tried to give you a drink of cool water, but you're not interested in eating or drinking anything that doesn't come out of boobs.
I think it's really starting to take a toll on her. I managed to feed you some pureed pears last night, but only through the clever means of waiting until you opened your mouth to wail and then shoving some food in. Whilst effective in achieving my aims, it wasn't a strategy that was particularly fun for either of us.