Really, where does the time go? Baby Bones is 10 months now, hardly even a baby anymore. I shall have to start calling him Smallbones, or something. Further to my previous entry, he’s certainly more weaned than weaning these days; everywhere we go people marvel at his (admittedly fabulous) eating skills. How Mr B and I love to watch him go at a whole pear or a hummus sandwich, joy smeared all over his face as he leans his elbows on the high chair tray like Paxman waiting for an answer.
It’s hard to miss him eating, or indeed doing anything at all, since he now spends every waking moment babbling with the volume turned up to 11. June was a complete paradigm shift – one Saturday he started clapping, the next producing those marvellous strings of bla-da-la-pa-fa-brrrrrrrrr-DA! I can’t put him down for a moment without him disappearing under the sofa (crawling forwards hasn’t quite made it to the top of the developmental checklist).
And he’s in nursery! My big brave boy <sniff> Which obviously means that I’m back at work. I like to think we’ve both dealt with it in a mature fashion.
Today, though, I am feeling every single minute of those ten tired months in my bones. 5am start – poorly kitty – two trips to vet either side of a pramwalk into town for several heavy bags of stuff. The boy is in bed, the sausages are in the oven, the wine is in my glass and the man in my life has already stated his commitment to joining me in an early night.