The books call it separation anxiety. But, if you recall, I cast away the books recently, so I’m going to call it baby barnacle syndrome. Whatever it is, mama is the flavour of the month in this house.
I arrange every toy imaginable in a circle on the carpet and plop him down in the middle of it so I can dry my hair. He flips onto his front and elbows his way across the room, raspberrying crossly to himself, until I have a tiny hand on my ankles. If I don’t pick him up, he settles for biting the hairdryer cable, poking his fingers into plug sockets, or laying an offering of breakfast sick over my feet. So I pick him up. I’ve had a lot of frizzy hair recently. Which also might be because whenever he’s within striking distance, he amuses himself by combing out my hair with his fingers.
Today he had mama-love and a temperature – double whammy – so we spent all afternoon cramped awkwardly in bed, his hot little face under my chin, smelling sweetly and stickily of Calpol. I wasn’t sorry about it. He won’t fit there for very long.