With every passing day, as E2 gets older, the changes in her are coming rapidly. Though I still think she is my baby, she is really nothing of the sort. And the more I realise that, the more I find myself longing for another baby. My third… my last… just one more… The feeling is so strong, so urgent! But M is adamant — there will be no more babies. So instead of clinging ever more desperately to her baby-ness, even as it slips away day by day, I try instead to rejoice in the competent little person she is becoming.
When she woke me at 4am last night — for the third time, mind — and I stumbled groggily into her room, she stood up in her cot and, pointing to her bum, said, “Oh noooo! Poooooo!” And then, for emphasis, trumpeted loudly.
And though it meant I had to carry her into the other room and turn on the rude lights, and stand there in the middle of the night wearing only the top half of my PJs and change a very stinky nappy, I had to smile. Because newborn babies, for all their rosebud-lipped lovliness, don’t point to their bums and tell you they’ve done a poo. And at 4am, when I can barely open my eyes enough to walk in a straight line, I do appreciate that she can now give me really big clues like that.