My daughter, the grown up lady

Our daughter has suddenly grown up. I thought we'd have to wait until the end of her first term at university (which I calculate, at the current rate of increase, will cost us about £2 million. Just for one term) to notice such a rapid change in her, but no. Maybe she's been inspired by the weather or something.

The big news is that we can now officially classify her as bipedal. It's still early days, and there was no climactic inaugural walking event like they have in the films and the stories. Rather, she started to slip in the odd step here and there, as a subtle addition to her routine of diving recklessly between pieces of furniture. Gradually these steps have become more commonplace, culminating yesterday evening in a nice, leisurely stroll across the room. Of course, I was outside watering the flowers at the time. But my wife has no reason to lie to me about this.

She is also making considerable progress with the other big -alking. Her current favourite pastime is to grab any phone (or remote control) within reach and conduct an imaginary conversation into it. It's still largely gibberish, but each phone call starts with a gleeful "Ey oh!" in much the same manner as I imagine an Outhere Brother - or perhaps an excited teletubby - might answer a call.

But she doesn't need a prop to encourage her to converse. She often bangs on about somebody called Mjubba. An imaginary friend perhaps? She seems to be quite fond of him or her, anyway. I am also told that - when I am expected home from work or anywhere else I may have been - my daughter tends to crane her neck to gain a good view of the front door while saying, "Dadaaaaaa, where aaaaaaare yooooou?" It's a real shame that, by definition, I'll never be there to hear this. But, again, I choose to take my wife's word for it.

Our daughter has also been honing her array of animal noises. Never mind that this honing seems to have involved streamlining the repertoire down to two. In her wonderful world, all mammals grunt like Peppa Pig, and all birds say "uck, uck." The latter also serves as a request for Mummy or Daddy to look at this please. Which is quite convenient when she wants us to look at a bird.

In other very exciting news, my wife had another scan this week. We have scythed our way through a forest of red tape, in order to swich our allegiance from the hospital in which we ended our previous pregnancy, to the one in which we began it. It's further away, but offers my wife the opportunity to be on the same medical trial that she was before, and this trial is very pertinent to her particular medical needs, about which I shall divulge no more. Suffice it to say that, once again, we will be treated to a view of the inside of my wife's womb more frequently than most. Well, most people are never treated to a view of the inside of my wife's womb, but you know what I mean.

Back to the very exciting news: it's probably another girl. Yippee!

SPD 2: cruise control*

My wife is now over fifteen weeks pregnant. Our new creation is apparently the size of an apple. But a big apple, like a cooking apple or a New York City. It's not really the size of a New York City. Can you imagine how uncomfortable that would be for her? The cooking apple is causing enough trouble as it is.

It's interesting to compare and contrast the effects of this pregnancy with the previous one. I think that, by this stage the last time around, the phenomenally unbearable itching had begun its assault on my wife's physical and psychological comfort. Mercifully, thus far, this ordeal has failed to present itself to her. I'd give my right arm to keep it that way. And I'm right-handed.

One symptom from which she is suffering once again is the propensity to fall asleep at about 9pm every day. This could, of course, be related to the infinitely energetic one year-old with whom she now spends most of her time - a factor which was absent from the prior gestation, being as it was the gestation of said one year-old, some time before she became a one year-old. The onus, then, is on me to step up the level of assistance I provide. I'm trying to do so, although one thing I have learned from a combination of parenthood and my instinctively lazy nature is that you can and should always try a bit harder. And I will.

The symptom whose return we feared the most has now, sadly, come back to haunt my wife's existence. Furthermore, it has embarked upon this haunting earlier than it did before. My understanding (assisted by Christine Hill at ivillage.co.uk) of SPD, or Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction is thus:

The human pelvis is actually made of three bones which meet at the front and sides, where they are held in 'fixed' joints (the one at the front called the symphysis pubis) by determined ligaments which create the illusion I always shared with most other people: that the pelvis is one, uninterrupted bone. Only pregnancy dispels this myth, when production of the hormone relaxin is increased to help these ligaments do some relaxin' in preparation for the birth. So far, so sensible. But the dysfunction occurs when the relaxin starts the relaxin' too early.

Imagine, if you will then, your pelvis splitting in two down the front, each half grinding on the other every time you put any weight on it. This is what my wife went through for several months when pregnant before, and now knows that she will suffer for even longer this time. By the time she was in labour with our daughter, she literally could not move for the pain the SPD caused her, rendering the hormone's name ironic at best. It is apparently normal for victims of this affliction to be struck again, and worse, during any subsequent pregnancy.

This normality offers no consolation. And with the aforementioned bundle of energy to chase around the house, I am frankly astounded by my wife's ability to not crumple in a small heap of despair in the corner. Opinion is divided as to any possible treatment for this affliction. Some say physiotherapy can help; others that there is nothing you can do whatsoever. We're going to try physiotherapy. In the meantime, as I have said, I need to up my game. On which note I'm off to clean the bathroom.

*I fully acknowledge that the "cruise control" element of this post's title is entirely inappropriate and quite possibly insensitive. But what sort of a man would turn down the opportunity to make a heavily contrived reference to such a landmark of modern cinema?