Miracle boy (MB) is now toddling, it’s an exact re-run of Neil Armstrong on the moon, with dribbles. Consequently, our house is transformed into Big Mother House, and each lurching step is recorded for future posterity (and girlfriends). MB responds to his own personal paparazzi with a very new, and very annoying, ear-piercing squeal. Perhaps he’ll end up in Musical theatre? I imagine this is the first step on his road to communicating and hope my hearing is still vaguely intact when he eventually graduates to words.
In light of the impending Inter-country Adoption Info day, I spend an entire weekend, online, researching our options. I’m interrupted half way through a particularly sinister American blog, on adopting siblings from China, with a call from Granny Farrow who asks whether I can send my maternity clothes down to the Breeders who, let us not forget are producing the Next Big Thing. Unlike me. I stall for time. At the moment, I feel far too territorial to let my much-loved over-priced tents and draperies go anywhere. I spend the next two hours inexplicably bidding for a Boden fleece for MB on EBay. Shopping is strangely therapeutic and despite the fact that I miss out on the lot, it has had the desired effect. And I sort through the maternity gear with no further gripes.
When I resume my research, Mr Farrow and MB help by bouncing on the furniture together. I’m suddenly struck by the thought that I already have two kids, is there enough room for another one? Mr Farrow will have to grow up. And that’s final.