After being around for nearly seven months I feel like I am pretty clued up on most things.
I still manage to spend most nights sleeping in Mother and Father’s bed, I can sit up and the bald patch on the back of my head is covering up again nicely. All is well.
The summer holidays have passed by and I must say, Mother had mentioned attending various swimming pools and zoos and parks, but all she seems to have done is built up a rotation of activities for me. My days therefore seem to consist of highchair, blanket and toys (along with a crescent of cushions to stop a repeat of recent head related injuries), carry around during tea making and phone conversations, highchair, blanket and toys and so on and so forth. I cannot complain however, they do make an effort to keep me entertained (if that’s what you call it), and they are sometimes quite amusing.
My love of the dog has blossomed over the summer months. I have spent many blissful moments sitting in my moses basket in the garden, under a sheet pegged onto the washing line. I work meticulously to handle my sorting shapes until, once they are covered in drool I drop them over the edge of the basket, never to be seen again. My dog sits by me and occasionally will drop a fragrant hairy tennis ball into my lap. I am never quite sure what to do with it, so we just look at each other and then the ball for quite a while. I love that dog.
Mother has recently introduced a variety of fruit and vegetables into my life. She whizzes them up with a hand blender with a proud look in her eyes, while the family meal from the freezer cooks in the oven on 220 degrees. I often enjoy the odd piece of fruit around lunch time. I find it a great stress reliever to eyeball my big sister, Ruby, and gently, but menacingly squeeze a banana in my fist until it oozes out between my fingers.
I have heard them discussing my supposed ‘temper’ in hushed tones, I can’t think why this is an issue. Perhaps if they took a moment to consider the discomfort of my wretched teeth slowly but surely sprouting up through my tender gums they would understand. Instead they slap some cold gel upon my gums and talk about similarities to someone called ‘Blakey’.
Mother and Father seem to be getting along again very well. There was a moment a while back when Father commented that Mother’s new post pregnancy hair regrowth gave her a likeness to Paul Weller, that I thought trouble could begin again, but all in all I have nothing to report on that subject.
So far, so good. Both Mother and I still recoil at the sight of metal salad spoons, so we’re still not quite over that one but the seven months so far have been a breeze.