In addition, he's really getting around. Walking here he comes!!!!
It is all very tiring.
I know she doesn't look sick here...but she had a big fever. So rather than drag the two monsters across the street to her favorite breakfast joint, Sammy wisely chose room service with at least a view of Pastis (see red brick building in the background!).
Cousins
Friends
Sammy stupidly left her camera in NY so thankfully Auntie Steph had her fab photos to document our proper Thanksgiving!
A perfect Thanksgiving Day ramble...
Speaking of Auntie Katherine, we're battening down the hatches and getting ready for Baby Jack and Katherine's much-anticipated arrival!!!!
Our friends Andrea and Gemma hosted a fab Halloween party. Even The General got into the action with some of his mates!
It was a beautiful sunny, crisp Autumn day here so we busted out The General's winter finerey and went for a walk. 
He's so huge!!!!!!
His Uncles are proud. Uncle Bo says that Rugby starts at 6.Only 5.5 more years until The General hits the pitch!
PS: Late entry - "mochila" means "backpack" in Spanish. Thanks Dora!!!
2. Typical mealtime with the General.
PS: He is now 18-pounds - that's over one stone!
Vic passes me a cup of tea. I tell her I’ve just had a baby girl. She says: “Ooh, that is sooo sweet. You’ve got a lickol baby.”
I flinch. I hate all that ickle-schlickle-lickol-baby thing. I want to throw my tea in the air and run off. I say nothing.
“What is she like?”
I can’t answer. My daughter stares at lights a lot. When she’s hungry, she turns her head, as if she’s calling a cab. Are these details significant?
“Is she beautiful?” prompts Vic. “Do you love her?”
“I’m confident”, I say, “that one day she’ll be beautiful as the sun streaming through leaves, but right now she looks like a monkey that’s been peeled.”
Vic looks visibly shocked. “That’s terrible,” she says. And the meeting starts, and I screw it up because I’m worrying I’m lacking in passion or kindness.
When I get home, the atmosphere is hectic. It’s 8pm. The girls have brushed their teeth and are now dancing wildly to some Christmas carols played at volume 50. My wife appears, holding the baby. The baby is screaming. Her face is bright red. She looks like a very small old lady who’s furious because she’s lost her wig. My wife flashes me a look that implies everything is my fault. I say: “I just need to pee.” And I dodge past her, like a doctor rushing through the waiting room.
As soon as I come out, she hands over the baby. “I need to sleep,” she says, “or I’ll have no milk at 10 o’clock.” My wife has turned into a dairy factory; she’s obsessive about keeping production levels high.
“Okay,” I say. I take the baby, and I start bouncing.
My daughter loves very deep bouncing. When she’s really yelling, sometimes the full, lunging squat is the only thing that can pull her out. I do that now. It’s questionable whether it’s an approved childcare technique, but it’s marvellous for the lower body. I’m developing the buttocks of an Alpine skier. I’m also out of breath. I must control myself. If I’m not relaxed, how can I expect the baby to be? I stare into her eyes and breathe deeply. We both calm.
Suddenly, she makes a worried face, as if she has just remembered something of great significance. As if it’s just come back to her that in a past life she left a candle burning. Then she poos. For a moment, she looks surprised. Then a ripple of pleasure passes over her face. The experience has been like going over a bump in a rollercoaster. It was fun. It made her tummy feel different.
“I like your style,” I say.
Now she seems to be noticing me for the first time. As if she’s going: “I don’t know who you are, but, one day, I might love you.” And I stare into her eyes, and I think much the same thing.
