I deleted my Facebook app yesterday and verily, it was like chipping a hole from my heart. Oh ok, it wasn’t. But I had to do it: every now and again I get to a stage where I can’t not check it. The habit of flicking in and out of it becomes so ingrained in my fingers that I do it without thinking. I don’t even like it much, but I’ve felt twitchily bereft since I got rid of it. What if there are notifications I’m not picking up? What do I do with myself while baby feeding? I’ve been like a crack addict in a nunnery, and this disturbs me. Oh Facebook, I wish I could quit you. Thank goodness I’ve still got Instagram.

I dislike being tied to anything inanimate, particularly something that involves so many details of other people’s bodily functions, so when I get to this point I go on a week-long Facebook fast. Like a detox, only with fewer vegetables. But also fewer Farmville invites, so there’s a win. (I know you’re probably reading this from a Facebook link; those are generated automatically, honest.)

I read a fascinating blog post the other day about how we learn to crave electronic information. Our brains create new pathways to process the flood of notifications and updates, and if those pathways are frequently used, we begin to want more and more of the same. I thought it might be good for me to clear a bit of space in my head for a week. I feel terribly hair-shirted and virtuous. Even though I’ve still got Instagram.

In other news (!):

This is as far as he’s willing to go to get a toy he can’t reach. Bottom in the air, face pressed dramatically into the blanket. O Mother, I am fortune’s fool. Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars! Etc.

But one day, sort-of soon, it might be a crawl.

Yeah, keep hoping.

I usually play this with Timothy when I come home from the library. The Book Shop edition is rarer but much more exciting. And Tim is working late tonight, so I thought I might play it with you instead.

(It’s definitely his favourite game, before you ask.)

Here’s what I got from the bookshop, after I’d wheeled Henry round every aisle three times over and run my hands over all the covers.

e. e. cummings first. Long overdue – he’s one of my besties, and I don’t have any of his collections. Faber volumes are among my favourites to cover-stroke, too. I very nearly bought a collected Wendy Cope because the teal-blue cover was so delicious, before I remembered that I already have everything in there.

Then: I caved, and bought The Hunger Games. So many people have told me how much they enjoyed this trilogy, and no one has said that the writing was so bad they wanted to remove their own eyes with a spork (mentioning no other famous-young-adult-trilogies-with-dramatic-black-covers I could name). So I’m pretty excited. It worries me slightly that the Queen of Sporkdom herself is recommending it on the spine, but you can’t have everything.

And finally: Sherlock Holmes. Because I’ve never read any on the page, though I’ve listened to quite a few on audiobook, and I’m still upset about Benedict Cumberbatch leaping off that building.

Alongside this hour of fabulousness, we went to Paperchase and bought a notebook and some pretty cards, and ate a chicken wrap and Gu chocolate mousse all covertly in the John Lewis boob room. It’s a nice place to sit, should you ever find yourself in there. You probably need a baby to get in, but that shouldn’t be too hard to arrange. Henry had lunch too, though he was much more interested in mine. Oh dear. Is this the start of something?

(P.S. – speaking of books, have you read Cold Comfort Farm? I read it in one gulp the other night, and it was just delightful. The sort of book that should be accompanied with cake.)

Weird Stuff Timothy Has Eaten On Toast, Part 1:

1. Mince

2. Onions

3. Mustard

4. Lemon icing

5. Tomato pasta

6. Chicken noodles

Stuff Timothy Will Not Eat On Toast Under Any Circumstances, Part 1:

1. Margarine.

The heck?!

Stay tuned: Timothy continues a lifelong campaign to divide all foodstuffs into things that can and cannot be eaten on toast. The latter group is not a large one.

(I am weird about toast too. It needs to be hot, or I can’t eat it. But I write this blog, so I say he is weirder.)

Happily, Daddy’s key in the door is always cause for excitement.

Less happily, Daddy is out tonight.

You don’t say, baby monitor. YOU DON’T SAY.

Oh, and the sleep training: for the past two nights, one of us has had a great night’s sleep, and one of us has had no sleep at all, which may possibly be due to the baby-monitor-to-ear bruise one of us is sporting. He didn’t seem bothered at all by the change of scene, and remembered to do his own breathing and everything. Tonight, I tried to put him to bed at a more baby-appropriate time and terrible things resulted. I picked him up after ten minutes, when he was crying so hard he couldn’t breathe (sorry, dear neighbours), and it turned out he had wind. Um. I’ll collect my bad mother award and go and stand over here, shall I?

The baby monitor came a couple of days ago, and his room is warm enough, and there’s really no reason to put it off any longer. We had a monitor trial run this afternoon as we put him in his room for an afternoon nap. Sure enough, I could hear him screaming his little face off as though he were right there in front of me. Top quality, BT. Top quality.

In case you were wondering, the temperature gauge is a worrywart. It’s definitely not Too Warm in his room. (I’m surprised they didn’t go for the urgency of all-caps and an exclamation mark. Perhaps I would’ve listened if it were TOO WARM!)

We discovered, after extensive research, that the monitor plays various kinds of tinkly music, can be used as a walkie talkie and does a superlative Darth Vader impression. Between this and the song I’ve composed to the tune of The Imperial March (The Imperial Henry; performances on request), this baby will be turning to the dark side of the force any day now.

It’s also possible to sing along to the music from the other room, but on this evidence – sorry Timothy – that’s something that should never be done again. We’d like to apologise to Mr Pachelbel for any offence caused.

He’s a cracking sleeper (at night, at least), but we’ll see what an unfamiliar room, an earlier bedtime and a very angry would-be tooth will do to his winning streak. If anyone has opinions on controlled crying, speak now or forever hold your peace. (I say ‘controlled crying’ all confidently like I have the heart to listen to him for longer than thirty seconds. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.)

And I won’t tell you about them, because there is nothing, no nothing, more boring than listening to someone else’s dream. That’s Timothy’s job. Hence, the following.

Me, via text: I totally dreamed that it was your birthday and we completely forgot! The guilt just woke me up.

[To save my blushes, I will not specify what time this text was sent.]

Timothy: But it is my birthday!

Nice try. I was sleepy enough to give some serious thought to what month it was, and then I remembered that we were having an adventurous time in the New Forest on Tim’s birthday, getting stuck in bogs and things. He was just hoping to wangle some presents and cake, I think.

So, Henry and I obliged.

Happy fake-anxiety-dream birthday, Timothy!

(I didn’t mean to make it look like a Menorah. It just does. A bit. Can you make a Menorah out of Krispy Kremes?)

…is in love with Sir Prance-A-Lot the psychedelic horse.

…has discovered his feet.

…face-plants whenever he tries to sit up, but keeps trying.

…Irish dances like Michael Flatley in the baby bouncer.

…feeds when he feels like it, and doesn’t often feel like it.

…sleeps at night like a champ.

…refuses to sleep all day (fair enough).

…smiles with his whole body, and cries with his whole heart.

…has the best day of his life when Daddy walks through the door.

…is totally over this teething thing, already.

…has learned how to splash in the bath.

…finds splashing people hilarious.

…rocks a nightshirt.

…might be getting ginger hair.

…is still the best thing that ever happened to us. The end.

She lifted my boy high in the air and said over and over ‘you are so loved. You are so loved. You are so loved’.

I just thought you couldn’t tell a baby anything better than that.

I often catch myself asking him, as I come back into a room where he is, ‘are you being a good boy?’ I don’t mean it – he doesn’t yet have the capacity to be a good boy or otherwise, and he can’t tell what I’m saying beyond the tone of voice anyway – but it’s just a way of saying ‘hello, I’m here – no need to panic’. It strikes me, though, that he can’t be far off understanding actual words, and that what I say to him will be significant sooner rather than later.

I do want him to be good, of course – and unfortunately (for him) I am not the type to put up with any messing. But I want him to feel that he is loved before he has a name for it. Right down in the centre of himself, alongside ‘Daddy is awesome’ and ‘boobs = yay’. I would like it to be the starting point for everything he does.

Because if the starting point is ‘I am so loved’, then I think the finishing point will be something to see.

Either make your entrance gracefully, or go away and I’ll just liquidise his food for the next ten years. Honestly, I would. His sad little red-cheeked face makes me sad.

He finds teeth inspections hilarious.

Incidentally, it very much looks like the first baby dents to break through will be the canines, which I didn’t think was how it went, but never mind. If this is the case, we’ll have a little vampire on our hands until more come through. And don’t think I’ll be able to resist investing in a red-lined baby cape, if so, because I won’t.

Why so sullen, Edward Cullen?

(The person to not notice how dirty my mirror is wins A Prize.)

He’s pretty good at sitting through my shower (essential for not hating everyone), getting dressed (for public decency) and hair-drying (for not looking like a startled lion), but by the putting-makeup-on stage, the raspberry noises are becoming insistent. He likes sitting with me and helping with mascara, though.

Today I ticked off one of my ‘For 2012′ items. On the drive back from lunch with friends I stopped, for the first time ever, and took in the scenery. I drove that way twice a day for over three years, and never once stopped the car. This afternoon the sky was scrubbed raw and clear with piercingly bright, gauzy sunshine. Not ideal driving conditions – though I always appreciate an excuse to wear Tim’s flashy Ray-Bans – but marvellous views.

I sang very loudly and wore those Ray-Bans like a pro, and felt supremely happy about all of it.

PS - Teeth! We have some teeth a-coming over here! Brace yourselves, teething rings (and noses, and ears, and fingers).