Thursday, 8 July 2010

Big and happy.

Once again (projection of my issues with the colour pink onto various straw men aside) I have been remiss in my reportage of my daughter's unwavering development. For this I apologise. Here's what you've been missing:

She continues to grow at a mightily impressive rate. At just over four months, she is now over 18lb, a weight usually recommended for ladies twice her age. Not to suggest, of course, that this is a bad thing: her growth seems lately to be focussed upwards more than outwards. The best description I can muster of my daughter's current length is to say that, when I hold her under her armpits and extend my own arms fully above my head, she can quite comfortably backheel me in the face. This is an ability which she happily exploits at every opportunity. I should probably take heed of my wife's pleas for me to stop holding her like that.

In a further, very significant development, our daughter has four imminent teeth. Two middle ones at the bottom and two canines (alright then: vampire teeth), one on each side at the top, are very much visible just beneath the surface, albeit yet to break through. This stage has been reached over the past two or three weeks, and I'd have to say that - apart from slightly more frequent grumbles, a lot of dribbling, and a propensity for putting any available object into her mouth, she's taking it all rather well. This would appear to indicate that our daughter is made of strong, resilient stuff. Excellent news. Sadly though, this does weaken my claim that my impassioned and heavily dramatic reaction to any affliction I suffer is somehow hereditary. I must instead conclude that it is because I am a man.

Perfectly timed to coincide with the tooth growth, has been our daughter's introduction to real food. Early attempts at baby rice met with amusing but disappointing results, as eager curiosity failed to overcome the confusion of a novice, and the rice dropped unchewed and unloved from a tongue unable to reconcile itself to the new flavour. And the small, heroic quantity that ran this gauntlet and made it to our daughter's stomach was not treated well when it got there, as her nappy was soon to discover.

Gentle perseverance, however, has resulted in some progress. One day last week, my wife introduced further rice to our daughter's mouth, and PING: something clicked. Or should that be pinged? Anyway, the eating instinct suddenly kicked in as she chomped gummily away on the solid(ish) stuff, before despatching it throatwards with the nonchalant efficiency of a seasoned professional. Only today, our daughter enjoyed her first sample of butternut squash: an experience to which I think she beat me by about twenty years. I should clarify that these have only been tasters: our daughter is still breast fed, and will hopefully remain so for a good couple of months. And I should reiterate my immense gratitude and pride in my wife for her steadfast commitment to this.

Our daughter's personality is also flourishing. She graciously takes pity on her father and knows just how to make him glow with joy, pride and other cliches. Upon seeing me after any significant absence, her brow wrinkles at first, before recognition and delight compete to spread across her face, jointly manifesting themselves in a beaming grin which I defy anyone to improve upon. Another preeminently lovable habit of hers is to squeal for all she's worth as a demonstration of happiness. In combination with seeing the unbridled joy on her face, this is absolutely adorable. Regrettably, without visual confirmation it sounds like the blood curdling scream of a Wes Craven protagonist at the climax of her panic. I dread to think of the conclusions our neighbours must draw from the noise, with the sinister accompaniment of our satisfied laughter in the background.

But she's just happy. Which means that everything's OK.

Exciting new look!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is so exciting I was compelled to use more exclamation marks than a hyperactive PE teacher enthusiastically designing a poster about his birthday party. Probably one involving squat thrusts. When you consider that I am one of those punctuation scrooges who see exclamation marks as the literary equivalent of laughing at your own joke, you'll begin to gain some understanding of the level of excitement on show here.

I invite you all to gasp in admiration at my blog's beguiling and appropriately pink new look. Of course, blog historians of the future will be unaware of its previously underwhelming aesthetic. But you, privileged readers of the present, will no doubt be suitably impressed by the transformation. Congratulations on sharing in the glory.

Homophobes and cliche-phobes may object to my choice of colour. To homophobes I say that you are now wrong about at least two things, and also that you should take the matter up with the football and rugby teams of Palermo and Stade Francais respectively. And to cliche-phobes I cite the determined reluctance of my wife and I - prior to our daughter's birth - to allow pink to permeate every aspect of her life, and the rapid crumbling of this resolve in the face of the colour's irrefutable suitability for little girls. You try having a daughter and let's see how long you persevere with cream and beige. And what sort of a stupid, made-up term for yourself is cliche-phobe anyway?