Babies can be funny.
And by funny I suppose what I really mean is infuriating and
unfathomable. S is now 5 months old and
we have tried to get him into a routine of sorts when it comes to bed
time. Usually we put N to bed first,
followed immediately by S. He plays with
his big sister a little and then is taken away to be stripped and prepared for
the final feed of the day. This often
includes a good amount of play time as he lies on his changing table, naked,
and able to waggle his legs around as much as he likes. Which is a lot of leg waggling. I mentioned Ian Woan in an earlier blog, and
it is times like this that I am able to see the likeness, when he has the
freedom to throw his legs around exactly as he likes there’s a definite shape
to his left leg that suggests he is just lining up to rifle a free-kick into
the top corner of the net. Or perhaps it’s
just me.
He loves this, the whole thing, the playing, the waggling. We have a giraffe called Sophie, let me
introduce you, here's Sophie
 |
| Cheerful isn't she? Probably because she doesn't realise she's about to be chewed by my son. |
Probably a common sight for many of you, Sophie is, after
all, quite the popular toy. But no
matter how many other homes she has infiltrated, S loves her. Chewing, pulling, he hasn’t mastered the art
of making her squeak, but if it wasn’t for that B and I would be pretty much
redundant. As it is we are marginalised enough
as he plays and chuckles and grins away.
