Remember when our baby was just a baby?

We're snowed in. We've decided to fend off the cabin fever by entertaining ourselves with video footage we made of our daughter in the summer, on a camera borrowed indefinitely from my wife's brother.

Although I'm aware on some subconscious level that babies grow and change at a phenomenal rate, it's easy to take these changes for granted when they occur in someone you study with great interest every day, thus viewing the developments incrementally. But having finally seen the footage from around four months ago, I'm struck by the differences in my now nine month-old daughter. I now have some sympathy with all those distant relatives who, upon meeting me once a year or so in my youth, would make astounded declarations concerning my own metamorphosis.

The outstanding revelation from July's footage is that I'm wearing shorts. And nothing on my feet. This is of course completely irrelevant, but merits a mention due to the stark contrast it represents with the foot or two of snow we're currently trapped by.

As for my daughter, I owe her an apology for underestimating the bountiful head of hair she now sports. Although still modestly covered in comparison to some of her more hirsute contemporaries, she is now a veritable lioness in relation to the Duncan Goodhew look she was working back in July. The one tuft she then had on the back of her neck was also distinctly more auburn than it seems now. Duncan Goodhew crossed with Amy Pond from Doctor Who, perhaps. On the swimmer scalp scale, I'm probably an Adrian Moorhouse, so this is a subject close to my heart. I'm relieved, therefore, to see this evidence of my daughter's progress.

A large proportion of our summer recordings consisted of our persistent efforts to get her to roll over. Seemingly endless attempts to capture this simple movement bore little fruit only four months ago, with the rare successes greeted by delighted whooping and hollering by all present. I do distinctly recall the epic nature of this challenge, but we've moved on. Our daughter can now reach any ground level location she chooses with nonchalant ease. Indeed, she is well into the mischievous, exploratory phase loved and adored by exhausted parents everywhere.

So crawling is mastered and, although she still can't walk unaided, she can really get about in her baby walker thingy (we call it her car, beacuse it's vaguely car themed and easier to say than "baby walker thingy"). She's up and down the living room like Nigel Mansell, with the one exception that her development is yet to include moustache growth. The few seconds a day when we dare to take our eyes off her, we spend laughing heartily in the face of mere rolling over.

Sadly, the conflict which results from our refusal to let her march head first into every solid object and sharp corner, no matter how inexplicably inviting they are to her, has resulted in the evocation of a less desirable sign of maturity: the hissy fit. In July things were so much more agreeable. Granted, she would cry all night long (which she now does a little bit less. A little bit), but the days were a blissful mix of silent curiosity and giggling. I'm sure nostalgia has clouded my memory of this somewhat, although the video seems to back up this assessment. Now though, if I so much as save her from caving her head in on the coffee table, I am met with screams of protest which might be construed by a lesser man than myself as ingratitude.

Other changes we had failed to fully appreciate include the gradual re-proportioning of her body. She still has enough reserves of fat to get her through this cold snap, but in July she was more of a tummy on legs. This of course is good news: we can extrapolate this development to confidently conclude that our daughter will turn out to be a healthy size and shape. Not that she's not now.

Teeth are quite easy to count, so we have maintained a more tangible awareness of her progress on that front. The first couple were still a novelty in July. Now she has eight. They are big, white and sharp. And she grinds them, which makes my skin crawl. But she seems to enjoy it.

All of this goes to demonstrate that, no matter how attentively you observe and admire your offspring, it's impossible to keep track of every detail. So thank goodness (and my brother-in-law) for the video camera.

We really must recharge the battery.