the aftermath

Earlier, I posted about the birth of our last little one. But of course, her birth was only the first part of the story - those precious first hours of newness were far more full of wonder, fear and drama.

And yet despite that, already my memories are blurred - did that happen then? when did that happen? Hmm. According to the photos that happened. Although the first immediacy is gone, I'm going to try to write it down so I don't forget yet more.



It's now a year since our little one first sparkled into being - the promise of all she'd reveal herself to be coming together in an almost to-small-to-be-seen miracle of cells, and it's set me remembering.

Our wonder-girl was born three months ago at 1.56 am, one of the hours of deep darkness, with many more to go before the dawn. White vernix still streaked her mass of dark hair, her skin was still plumped from her long immersion. Beloved handed her up to me as I stood naked in the bath, shocked that she'd arrived so many hours before we were expecting her. Slippery, perfect. After so long we met face to face. "Hello little one, you're here. You're here. Hello, my darling."

The joy of having her finally in the world, her little red faced scrunched up, aggrieved, her tiny fingers and toes still ridiculously wrinkled, was overwhelming, but other factors were impinging.

I was too dizzy, too scared of the jelly of my arms to hold her, so I relinquished her to the midwife to carry, wrapped a towel around myself and clambered unsteadily out of the bath. Leaning heavily on Beloved and dripping blood and water, I hobbled back to the birth suite bed. As soon as I lay down my little one was returned to me, warm, silken, wet, impossibly new and sweet smelling.

I played with the remote on the bed until I was sitting up properly and there was a flurry of happenings around us. There was a sharp stab into my thigh as they injected the oxytocin, which speeds up the delivery of the placenta and aims to prevent excessive blood loss.

The third stage of labor the expulsion of the placenta was a slighter pain - hardly memorable - lost in staring at our little one, working out who she was, exclaiming over her little toes and her mass of hair, the swirls of down on her arms, her tiny ears.

"Look at that hair on her back, she's a gorilla!" Beloved exclaimed. I looked up to glare at him.

"She's perfect!"

"A perfect gorilla."

The placenta, like most placentas, was hideous, a flattish liverish looking mass. It had done it's job well (apart from the whole gestational diabetes thing) and it seemed a bit ungrateful to be so eager to be rid of it, but I was happy to have it taken away for inspection.

While I held our little mite to my chest, waiting for her to show signs of wanting milk, my midwife clamped the cord then held it out to Beloved. "You ready?"

It was the fourth time he'd cut the cord so he was prepared. It's tougher than it looks, an odd greyish, slightly twisted thing, that doesn't look like it's supposed to be on the outside of a body. It's a bitter-sweet moment, when that last physical connection goes, but you finally get to hold your baby on the outside.

And it was about then that I felt the first big gush of warmth.

I shifted slightly, and there was another. It felt like I was sitting in a pool.

"Ah, I think there's a lot of blood," I told my midwife.

She had a check, then took the mat under me away to be weighed. More blood gushed out. I tried to pay attention to how it felt so I could describe it in my writing, but it was hard to pay attention. It was beginning to feel familiar. I lost a lot of blood with my first - enough that I needed a transfusion - this was feeling very similar.

Our babe was starting to make movements as if searching for milk, so I brought her higher, showed her where it was and that the supply was plentiful.

Shortly after that the midwife connected a drip of clear fluid into my cannula and then put in a catheter. I didn't recall a catheter being so painful. It was a sting, a sharp discomfort.

And sometime in there my midwife started pounding on my somewhat tender uterus. And there were further warm gushes.  I gripped to Beloved's hand with one hand, held our baby with the other arm. Deep breath, deep breath.

While my little one began showing an interest in the milk - licking, kneading, but not quite ready to latch, there was a steady flood of blood. The mat beneath me was changed again, and then again.

Deep, slow breath. I have memories of them doing this with my firstborn - pounding on my tummy as if it were  a boxing bag, but I was a lot more hazy then, half passed out with exhaustion and lack of sleep. This was sharp and clear and it hurt.

Breathing deep I struggled not to tense, worried I'd squash our little babe.

I told myself This is nothing, our babe is here, look at her darling toes. Who are you my little one? I'm in awe of the promise of you. The joy and honour of seeing you show yourself. 

The doctor came in - she looked fresh and alert and very capable, with short dark hair and well done makeup. She pounded on my abdomen as well, and more blood gushed out. And more.

Darling babe. I stared at her face, trying to memorise. Remember.

The kneading was just a distraction.

"Have you decided on the name yet?" my midwife asked. I looked up at Beloved. We'd been in negotiation for awhile, although I'd never had any real doubt about whose choice would win out. It does a lot to put the ball in your favour to have recently gone through several hours of intense pain and still be bleeding a substantial amount.

Our little girl is Anna. My choice. I love the simplicity  and elegance of it, the history of it. And I have never met an Anna or an Anne who wasn't lovely. Obviously, Beloved will call her by his choice, now her second name, and she'll decide when she's old enough.

Cold wrapped around me. I started to shiver. Someone brought some warm towels and wrapped them around my shoulders and I tucked them around Anna as well. I adore warm towels - one of the many perks of hospitals. Warm hospital wraps are loosely put around Anna so we are cocooned in cloth and warmth.

Hunger started to attack. After a few months on a hospital ordered limited carb diet for gestational diabetes I'd been dreaming of this moment.

I look up at Beloved. "Pink donuts. I'd really, really like some pink donuts." Of course, being the middle of the night there was nowhere to get any and, despite my capacious bags and much wracking of my brain over what to bring, I didn't have any donuts with pink icing packed. I had some rather disgusting dairy free chocolate instead. It had some sugar in it so I ate it.

"I'm going to have to have a look and see what's wrong," the doctor said. That didn't sound good.
"Have you taken gas or anything?" she asked.  I shook my head.

"Would you like some?" I shook my head again. The time I had gas with my first born I threw up.

"Would you like some endone?" I'd never heard of endone. It was more than thirty hours since I'd slept and so hard to take things in, but I was fairly sure I'd never come across endone in my research on painkillers.

"What are the side effects?" The doctor was a bit sketchy, but told me they'd give me some medicine for the nausea. Nausea?  I was decided. I didn't want anything that brought nausea as a side effect. I'd prefer to get the pain over with and not have any lingering stuff.

"No, thank you. But I'd like a panadol." There was general laughter but I'm a big believer in placebos.

I returned to studying my little one. This newness goes so quickly. The skinny toes, the narrow feet, yet to plump up. Her little mouth. She had darker pink markings on her eyelids and forehead, similar to ones her oldest sister had. They'll fade in time, but for now I'm glad of their distinctiveness. It would be impossible to mistake her.

The doctor reached up inside me. (This translates to 'shoved her fist up me'.) I couldn't help an indrawn breath and concentrated on not holding Anna too tightly, on steady breathing. O God but it hurt. Hands should not go up there. They just don't fit and everything is raw and sore and deep breath. I can't tense up with the pain, I'm holding my baby. Muscles relax. The catheter dragged and ached and I swallowed. And swallowed again. This kind of pain was supposed to be over. It was in the contract somewhere, wasn't it?

Inhale one two three. Exhale one two three. I didn't go to any childbirth classes with this baby, or indeed the last two, but made a real effort to get to prenatal yoga, relishing the time out from busyness to concentrate on the one within. The breathing practice was a God-send. I congratulated myself on making the right choice. One two three breathe out, steadily.

I studied the wet swirls of Anna's hair. The small streaks of white vernix. Her weight and warmth were so exactly right in my arms. Nothing (except the other three) had ever felt so perfect. There is nothing softer than her silken skin, her hair. Her little foot was smaller than my pinkie finger. I ran one finger along her sole and her toes flexed. I held her miniature hand, besotted.

Surely, it couldn't last much longer. Surely. What was the doctor doing up in there? Excavating? Surely not much longer.

"What exactly is a clot?" I asked, feeling dim. "Why do I have one?" I remember clots the size of lemons coming out after Adventure Boy. It freaked me out a little. It turns out the clots are just congealed blood. As a concept I didn't approve and I still didn't understand how the blood congealed quickly enough to have formed the lumps after the birth. It hadn't been that long.

Finally she stopped rummaging and withdrew a large chunk of dark, jelly-ish red, about the size of her fist.

I heaved a normal breath. Through the window overlooking a courtyard, the sky was beginning to lighten. Although we were in the hospital less than two hours before Anna arrived the other 'stuff' took nearly twice as long.

"How much blood have I lost?" I asked, as the mat was taken away again to be weighed.

"Not enough to be interesting," Beloved told me. I rolled my eyes but it was strangely reassuring. Interesting is bad. Boring is good. It turns out to be over two litres. "More than with Adventure Boy."
I think they've just been better at weighing it, not being quite so panic stricken. I know how much I lost with them both and I lost way more with Adventure Boy.

"I don't think you should go into work today," I told Beloved. His face had a worrying greyish tinge.

"Neither do I," said the doctor, who had recently had her fist in my innards. It turned out she was one of Beloved's bosses. It was somewhat odd having a husband doing an obstetrics rotation, thereby knowing all the doctors and midwives, when you're having a baby.

Anna was taken from me to be weighed, measured, pricked and blooded again, and we commented on the shock of having a dark haired, small (for us - average sized really) baby after three large, baldish, blondes. We knew she was going to be small from a late scan, but the shock of the dark hair is a delight. Blonde was lovely but a change was welcome.

Relieved that Beloved wouldn't be starting work in a couple of hours  I sent him to look for coffee to help him make it home in one piece.

Cold again, I asked for more warm towels. Seriously they're the best. They descended around Anna and I in a cloud of delight. I could sink back and close my eyes and... try to forget that I was sitting in a pool of gore and attached to two cords...

The crowds left. Beloved returned with coffee and and then, under supervision, rifled through my suitcase to find Anna's first clothes and dress her - her little onesie - her beanie to keep her warm. The midwife swaddled her in the hospital wrap and placed her in a perspex bassinet. Further instruction unearthed PJ's and a robe and slippers for me. The robe had me so excited. I was actually chilled enough to wear it.

Beloved reluctantly left, and although I begged him to get some sleep, I doubted he would - he'd probably try to stay awake to drive the kids to school.

I asked if I could have the cords out - they were both uncomfortable - two persistent, sharp aches. The midwife considered, and then removed the catheter, but looked at the cannula and decided it needed to stay in, although it was disconnected from the drip. It was all blood smeared because they had to put it in during a contraction and it was very hard to stay still.

My vitals were checked again and then with one last look at my sleeping little one, only her face visible from within her swaddling, beneath her blue velvet beanie, I pealed myself from the bloodied bed and hobbled to the bathroom and the blessed relief of the shower. As I made my way into the bathroom where I had laboured I heard someone say "It's like a murder scene."

The water ran red as I showered and though I'd just spent nearly two hours in the bath it felt so good to be clean. I inspected the flaccid sack of the pouch that had held Anna for so long, but this time, unlike after my first baby, I was prepared for it. My balance was off, not having the solid weight of Anna within me, and I was ponderous with sleepless-ness and blood loss. Everything seemed slow-motion-y. Clean and dry it took me a long time to work my limbs into my pyjamas, get my arms through the sleeves of the robe, work out the maternity pads. I steadied myself against the sink. Warm and in fresh clothes I savoured the knowledge our baby was truly here. Through in that other room slept our baby.

The world was a wonderful place.

Emerging from the bathroom it was time for us to leave the birth suite.

I was beyond tired. I shuffled along the corridor pushing Anna's bassinet - the midwife had gone on ahead to prepare my room. I couldn't remember what number room she'd said. Everything seemed momentous. Each step was slow, ponderous. I couldn't walk faster although I'd like to. I stared down at our little one, sleeping so peacefully. The corridors seemed to go on forever, and had a dreamlike look to them.

This is the beginning. She is so beautiful.

I was beyond tired.

I finally found my room, two curtained beds in it, both empty. If it weren't for the bassinet I was pushing I would topple over. I looked around the room with gratitude. Here, my little one and I would spend time together, become properly acquainted. At home the chaos, madness and full-on-ness never-stop, but this would be our sanctuary, our time apart from the world to learn each other.

Wheeling the bassinet over to the side of the bed, making sure her head would be on level with mine so I could look over and see her face, I tumbled into the bed.

Crisp sheets. Mmm. So weary each cell in my body seemed weighted, to be trying to sink into the ground but mmm. Crisp sheets. I burrowed in. Turned to face my little one. Stared at her in the pale light of morning easing through the window.

She was here. Our wonder-girl. Our Anna.

Morning Moments (books & babe)

She grows so quickly, my little one.
My smallest one, who only a blink ago I carried everywhere, is now toddling around the house with great determination, causing mischief and unravelling order.
Capture a moment - early morning, as she pulls some books off the shelf and carts them around, followed by her faithful hound, who stops every so often to lick her snotty nose.
There is a reason my books are not beautifully catalogued - by colour, sorry Dewey - and that reason's name is Giggle-Bear.

Littlest: Eight Months

Dear heart,

The time is just racing by and you are getting so large (in a small kind of way!) and so very much yourself. Each day that goes by you seem more entirely you and we are even more besottted. The way you carefully observe before your smile slowly blooms, your great determination, the complete joy and delight you take in your siblings, almost matched by your wariness, the way you're always craning around my shoulder to see more, your great delight in people and play.

Your colouring is very pale and pearly, your large eyes an indeterminate shade of dark blue and grey with flecks of this and that thrown in, your skin pale and opalescent, always gently catching the light, your hair still waiting to make up its mind and blond or darken.

I didn't actually believe it was possible for you to become more beautiful and even more loveable, but each day you seem to grow more endearing. The way you curl your toes, the way you reach up to be held, the way you say 'mummmm' and 'dadddd' and that amazing deep gurgle giggle. The way when I pick you up, you immediately cuddle into my neck, content, leaving behind all crying instantly.

As usual, this post is a little late. You turned eight months the day we left the United Kingdom for the continent, almost two weeks ago now. (A bad move, to be honest, although in my opinion leaving Scotland was a Bad Move, so the further Southerly trend was just bad on bad, although I could be biased due to illness. Although in theory, and my over active imagination, seeing more cities since we were over there, was a Good Idea, when it came to leave Scotland I was in tears - so many people we hadn't managed to see, so many places we hadn't managed to go. Leaving the continent I was also in tears - but of sheer relief to be going home!)

As usual, you travelled brilliantly - the only one of us that did! While you rebel against being put in your car seat (me, kept captive, again? I think not! seems to be your general thought) you adore planes - mainly because of the scope of people to smile at. While you are still very much in your "I-need-my-mummy" phase, you do love smiling at strangers from the safety of my arms. You believe air stewards are put there purely for you to grin at and you could always be settled by showing you all the people on the plane. If you can believe it, some philistines did not smile back. (They could have been a bit weary from the antics of your brother and sister…)

You have seen snow. You have seen snow fall (briefly!) While from here on you're going to be a daughter of the tropics, you have seen snow fall.

You learnt to crawl in Scotland, my darling. As your Grandpa says, that means you're practically entitled to represent Scotland in the Olympics. (Let's hope you get your daddy's sporting ability!)
And… you had your first Christmas. Not a white one - but it was chilly, and it was in Scotland and we did rug you up warm and you did see a castle! It was lovely seeing five little stockings lined up, our little family complete.

You suddenly went from not many toys to a superabundance! (Many with a Scottish theme, Edinburgh Counting Board Book anyone… One Castle etc... (And that's not going into things picked up later in other places… but the travel is boring and you're suddenly at the stage where you like toys!)

We did not get to see as many of our Scottish relatives as I had hoped - the mastitis I traveled over with, on top of all the illness before that, knocked me around a lot, and we were slow getting our phones organised - alright, we never actually got them organised - they routed back through Australia. But you did see your Great Great Aunty, and while she didn't have a clue who any of us were, she did love holding you and playing with you. This was the first time I've been over since your Great Granny and Pappy died, and it was very hard being there without them, although even last visit your Granny's dementia meant she hadn't recognised me, but she'd loved holding your brother, a little one year old then.

I've been carrying you in your new winter carrier, my little-bundle-of-close-held-warmth, and while you don't like getting it on, you do have a tendency to fall asleep as soon as it is on, and it keeps us both snugly warm. And I love having you so close. I love feeling your breathing, resting my cheek against the softness of your hair, holding your hand or little feet (your shoes just refused to stay on, even putting hair bands on them - thank goodness for tights and layers! And they were such gorgeous little shoes!) Dressing you in cold-weather gear has been a constant delight - finally getting to play dress-ups with all the soft-as-soft hats, faux fur vests, velvet dresses, mini-coats and merino bodysuits was so much fun. I'm already looking forward to going back down to Victoria in the winter and hoping as least some still fit!

Your brother came over to me yesterday as I was feeding you and said "I'm glad we have Littlest. Now I have two sisters." Frown. "It's a lot of responsibility." (You have a habit of grabbing his hair, or crawling up to sink your two little teeth into his foot to get his attention, then grinning, so he knows we need to teach you to be a well behaved baby who strokes, not pulls, kisses not bites.)
And it is a lot of responsibility, but we love you so!

Littlest (Six Months)

Dear-heart,

This month you have grown so much! You are suddenly blooming, just like the roses in the front garden but far more beautiful.

You have learnt to sit up and how to put your toes in your mouth. Your wonderful belly-gurgle-giggle has become a regular occurrence, especially when you see your big sister. You've started eating solids. Hello avocado and banana - fuss free, naturally packaged baby food, I cut you slices and you play and mash and suck on them, as well as throw them on the floor. A lot.

We have promoted you from the bassinet to the cot - the same one we lugged all the way to Vanuatu and back for your brother, and that your sister slept in. It's pressed up beside our futon, and as I write this I can hold your warm little hand that's poking through the bars. (It's possible I cried when we put away your bassinet, we'll be taking it to Melbourne for one of your Nana's friends from West Papua, but o my baby, my last baby, you grow so fast.)

You remain perfect in each and every way - from your soft downy hair that's decided to side part itself and is (after checking photos) the exact same shade as your brother's at this age - you're going to be another little blondie! - to your chunky little thighs and darling tiny nails, all varying colours of delicate pink, like shells from the deep. The little dimples at the base of each of your fingers are indescribably sweet.

(You're feeding again now, busily sucking, your pudgy smooth toes pressed up against my typing arm, my other arm full of sweet baby, one of your little hands possessively curled around the milk)

We went to the pool today, Little-one, and you loved it. You went into a yellow ring, just like your brother and sister, although I held you as well, and you smiled and looked amazed and tried splashing the water. Perfect happiness is having both arms filled with my little water babies.

To be (overly) frank little one, we needed the unwind time in the pool as it's been a week of stresses. Beginning with a colonoscopy (mine, not a lot of fun, particularly the preparation for it the day before with the whole non-eating) two bouts of gastro (your daddy and I) your daddy getting electrocuted and spending a night getting monitored - including being prepped for surgery which was thankfully cancelled- and your brother getting scans and seeing specialists about a lump on his jaw that just isn't going away. And then the packing for our Big Move. Let us not mention the packing.

There's a lot of deep breathing going on. But you, my darling, have been a constant joy and delight.
Your amazed smile, your contented sigh and cuddling in when you're picked up, your desperately outreaching fingers whenever there's food around, your happiness in being lugged about by your brother and sister, the way you coorie in to my shoulder when you're tired with little seal noises.

You think blowing bubbles is amazingly clever. Which of course it is. (Cue long discussions with your brother and sister about why babies blowing bubbles is adorable and bigger kids blowing bubbles is not so much.)

Your favourite trick at present is to grab both my cheeks and then lunge towards me to attack my nose with slobber. You repeat this with enthusiasm. You also think your own tongue is wonderful and stick it out constantly. It is very cute.

You love going out and smiling at random strangers - we're both a little aggrieved when they don't smile back. The rudeness! Your smile is slow growing, so admittedly this is not always their fault - they might be half-way out the door before your smile is complete.

You giggle so much we very nearly decided to add Giggles to your (rather long) list of endearments. Instead we call you Hoggles, a cross between Hogs and Giggles. Your daddy says that as the mother of Hoggles I should be Moggles, but I am unconvinced.

Our Giggles, our Hoggles, our little Pearl-Girl, our Lili-Pili, our Chubster. You are our constant delight. In the chaos of the everyday you are our calm and our radiant joy.

Littlest: Five Months

Our dearest Little One, 

You are just passed five months now and the sweetest little armful of cuddles. Your little fingers and toes are all plumped, you have chubby little cheeks and the most delightful giggling gurgle.

You are sitting up now, with a tiny bit of propping and are very proud of your achievement - although you still prefer it when someone helps you stand. You continue to be our little drool-a-tron, soaking through four or five bibs a day and at least a couple of changes, but there is yet no real sign of teeth, although you busily gum everything you can lay your searching little fingers on. You explore our faces, stick your fingers in our mouths and feel our teeth, try to gum at our noses, lunging at them with your victory grin. 

Is it wrong that my heart gives a little stutter when I see you playing with one of my books as you sit in my lap as I read, your tiny fingers busy exploring the cover, the pages, you pause for a quick taste - hmm, fantasy book- then look up with a grin. 

This morning Poppet had you on her lap while she strummed Sprocket's ukelele and you were in heaven - to be with one of the big kids and a big sound-maker. I don't think you believed the world could get any better. Except of course for the milk. (She says smuggly...) Luckily Poppet's song this morning was cheerier than last nights - this morning it was all about brothers and sisters, last night it was all about death. "Everybody dies. Everybody dies, Everybody's born, Everybody dies, Everybody dies. But God lives forever..."

I have missed you this last week - I've been sick, first with gastro, then a leurgy, and we stayed at your Nana and Grandpa's while I recovered. You're getting quite blase about the trains going past their house, which used to enthrall you, but your Grandpa taught you how to high-five (which greatly entertained me as growing up your grandpa would not allow us to use any 'Americanism's and was quick to remind us to use proper English. Again, slightly entertaining coming from a Glaswegian.) You thought it was wonderful that there was a game you could play and, with great effort, and not a lot of co-ordination, you would slowly move your hand up to meet his.

The week before we had a perfect week by the sea, again with your Nana and Papa, with some of the most beautiful blue-sky weather and you put your little feet in the sand and we lowered your little toes in the water and you studied the waves with fascination.

Increasingly you have no patience for being inside. You want to be outside, studying sky and trees and hopfully coming upon passers by to practice your grins on and coo as they comment on your big eyes and cheery dissposition. You'll just about stand being inside if Poppet or Sprocket are about, but if it's just your Daddy or I you soon lose interest and want to be outside. You howl if your brother and sister leave the room and I don't follow them. You have very clear ideas about your place in the world, and basically it is with them. Preferably outside with them. 

I am a little worried that the slightly larger age gap will mean that you will be forever trailing after them, but hopefully you and Poppet will be able to play together - if only as queen and lady-in-waiting... If your adoration continues I suspect you will have nothing against playing lady-in-waiting... I can easily see your sister as Titania and you as one of her attending fairies...You are talking lots at the moment, oohing and aaahing and making strange indescribably adorable little gurgles and squeaks. They are incredibly sweet sounds and I will miss them when you begin to talk. (I would swear you say 'hello' and 'Lily'... but I am a little biased!)

We are starting to pack up to move, Little one. There are boxes all through the house and I am jettisoning things daily. It is strange to think you'll have no memory of this, your first home. The roses, the blosssom, the all-on-top-of-each-other squeeze. I find it hard to believe that it's only sixty days until we fly up north for the forseeable future. You are still so wheezy the doctor has put you on ventolin - I hate seeing your little face beneath the spacer - but I so hope that it will clear up when we move. Your Daddy hadn't had asthma since he was a kid before we moved to the valley.

Little one, I didn't think it possible but we love you more and more each day, and each tiny millimetre of you is pink and white perfection. I think I drop a kiss on you at least once every hour, because it is just impossible not to. Your smile lights up our lives and no one could fail to laugh when you laugh. We love to watch your eyes take in the world, look from place to place and back again, to see your fingers feel out the world, to see you pull at your brother's top to get his attention, hold to your sisters fingers. I love to watch your sleeping face as you sleep-feed, the delicate sweep of lashes and soft-tinted busily sucking lips.

Each day you interact more and more and you are so eager to be one of us, to be up and about and one of the pack, your gigles and exuberant grins of triumphant when you succeed are such a delight.

Our Lilli-Pilli, our Littlest we're so glad you're you. We're so glad that you are ours. 

Littlest: Four months

Sweetheart, 

You're four months today and such a gorgeous delight of gurgles and giggles and triumphant grins. I know I only completed your three month letter a couple of weeks ago but even in those two weeks you seem to have grown hugely. 

Your little giggle is deep and wheezy and completely delighted. Heh-hehehehehe! Sometimes when I just giggle at you, you giggle back, sometimes I have to work for it, blowing raspberries on your belly or smooching your neck. You also think your brother and sister are your own personal entertainment system and you'll often giggle at them.  

You are exceptionally bad for my ego - on seeing me your whole face lights up in a beaming grin. I'm sure such blatant adoration can't be good for me. 

You are reaching out more and more, to touch, to feel, to move. While you feed your hands are constantly sweeping, moving, patting, kneading. You reach out for food, grab for toys. You like to hold my fingers, clasping, unclasping, furling, unfurling your fingers, and then moving on to reach for my book. 

You have discovered your own soft, downy head, and for a few days there you were constantly reaching up to feel the softness at the back of your skull. It looked very affected and droll. I don't blame you - your little head is so silken and warm. 

We are calling you the Drool-Meister at the moment because you are just swimming in dribble. You are constantly chewing on one hand, or both hands or your fingers and drenching at least one bib a day. I don't like to put you in a bib over night in case it covers your face, so you always wake damp chested. 


You are more accustomed to tummy time now (although it tends to make you posset) and struggle to move around, making odd swimming notions, pushing your little backside in the air, raising up your head. Even on your tummy you want to be in control, lifting up your head and legs with better tummy muscles than I have. (Not precisely hard.) 

Your daddy took all three of you for two afternoons recently while I was at work and he was pleasantly surprised with how well you took the bottle - and how easy it was to delight and entertain you - as long as there was milk in the offing. It's the first time he's been able to feed one of you while you're milk-dependent, and it was clear he liked it. He has talked of mummy-envy - the envy of being able to instantly settle a baby, and this seems to be a solution - although I can't say I'm a fan of expressing. I feel distinctly bovine. 

We took you to the beach last weekend, and you lay on the sand and gurgled up at the blue sky (you were carefully in shade: note to self, we need to get you a sunhat). Your sister put a pile of sand on your tummy so you could truly experience the beach and you got little sandy toes from kicking. We put your tiny feet in the sea - you looked startled. We put your tiny feet in a sun-warmed rock-pool, where soft weed swirled around them - and you smiled. 

You are joining the pack on the trampoline now - loving being 'one of the kids'. Your sister loves to hold you as you stand, so strong on your podgy little thighs. 

Your brother saves his softness, his tenderness for you. His voice changes when he talks to you, takes on a tone he uses for no one else. Your sister loves to hold you, loves 'girl-time' with just the three of us. When we got home from the beach on the weekend, cold and sandy we all tumbled into the bath and you thought it was the best of fun. We've given up using your little baby bucket - now you either have a shower with your daddy or I or a bath with the kids. 

You went back to waking frequently in the night again - after weeks of sleeping through I found it a bit of a shock (the night earlier this week that began with your brother vomiting all over the bed, then the floor, and continued with you waking continuously was a bit of a downer) but we think we have solved the mystery - you chew on your little hands, get them all wet with slobber and then they freeze. We are now ensuring you have little mittens that don't fall off and you are sleeping much better. 

Your daddy has started a new rotation in the city so he's walking up to the train station before you kids wake up, (putting a coffee beside my bed for your first feed, leaving the porridge in the microwave) and returning just on bed time or after. He was sick all last week and we reveled in the daddy-time, but this is a new week. 

Four months wee one, A third of a year. You are still so small, so new, and yet are becoming so known. In your face and good humor, the way you smile so beguilingly at strangers, the mischief in your grin, we are increasingly seeing who you are. You are a hip baby now, happy to see the world from my hip, although you are often in a wrap. You are becoming increasingly less happy in a bouncer (unless you're outside). 

You are still wheezy - you've never really thrown of your sickness. You grunt so much your daddy calls you 'Hoggy' -although I always tell him off. My poor little darling. I hope the move to warmer weather clears up your chest, I always get a pang at your shnuffling. There was a report about the fires earlier in the year and it talked about babies with respiratory problems - that's you sweet. It almost made me cry. And of course we don't know that the fires and smoke caused your wheezing... but I'll be glad when we're well away. 

Your little baby pimples have disappeared and your skin is so delicate and soft - bar a tiny bit of cradle cap. We are thinking you'll have dark hair and your eyes are looking decidedly blue. You take more after your brother than your sister - he was a solid little bundle of cuddles - your sister was all elfin lankiness. 

My chubby little cherub - you bring us so much laughter, your smile is so infectious (in a good way!) it is so lovely to see you take your place in the family, our little Drool-atron.