Mittsa has had a further meeting with the blunt instrument known as our Maternal and Child Health Nurse. Joyously ours since Bear's birth, she's had many opportunities to gruffly accuse Beloved of 'you wiping baby bum too hard' (thrush, in fact) or 'no-one show you how to dress baby' (no-one, indeed, as this is partly the job of individuals like the Mat Nurse, together with not being a complete bitch who makes young mums feel like crap).
Anyway, she's soften slightly, perhaps amazed that we've managed to keep our kids alive this long, and has had little to argue with in respect of Mitts.
Over the 97th percentile for weight, and 90th for length and head circumferance. He's a boof!
But he's got a soft heart, with huge smiles for his dad and a penchant for big cuddles. Since birth he has seemingly attained a level of zen that he carries through the vicissitudes of the day, easily placated with a hug or a chat. He coos multi-syllabled dipthongs that get closer and closer to sounding like words, words that are wizzing around in daddy's head waiting for a match: da-dy, lo-ve oo, fay-vrite, car-dools.
Our moments are still too brief.
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