Or he/she, as I suppose we should be saying now. (HE, insists Timothy, yet again. I AM ONLY CAPABLE OF MAKING HES.) I wish I could let everyone know individually rather than putting it on the blog (or, indeed, on Facebook, where it’ll be later), but in the absence of all the right phone numbers and with so many friends and family abroad, this does seem like the most efficient way to do it.
It got Henry’s nose. We’re still on the fence as to whether that’s a good thing. Wriggles as much as him, too. No fence required on that one.
I hear four is a good number for a family, these days.
(The title is from Maura Dooley’s ‘Freight’, which is still the best baby-carrying poem I’ve ever read. Read it and grow taller.)
Hey, if reading about growing a covert baby all covertly is your thing, you’re in luck:
1. enter pirate king Jeffcoat, stage left; 2. the mashed potato cure; 3. animals; 4. yoghurt-flavoured sadness 5. thank you for the music; 6. a haiku about cravings; 7. confessions; 8. thoughts on doing the Christmas grocery run; 9. wait, is that the end of the tunnel? 10. things I have unnecessarily cried at this week (there were many).
Forgive me for the influx, Google Reader people! Yours were the only notifications I couldn’t turn off…