I have two.

Children, that is. Boys. Thomas has just turned four, and Finn is nearly seven months. 

Tom is this wonderful, lanky thing, his baby fat long gone, all arms and legs and blonde hair. Superhero enthusiast, dreams of becoming a fireman, but is keeping the title of The Green Lantern as a fall-back option. He's generally either swinging between being so-freaking-difficult-that-I-want-to-rip-my-freaking-eyelashes-out, and being the sweetest, most hilarious, clever, inquisitive little man you could imagine. Currently learning to wee standing up, occasionally sticks peas up his nose and forever coming home from walks with pockets full of rocks. He came along when I was only nineteen, and while it was obviously an adjustment, I'm so glad I got him. I'm pretty in love with him. 

This kid is brand new. He's soft and squishy and huge (he's already nine kilos, and he was a ten pounder and birth.TEN POUNDS, I tell you!). He's this amazing laid back little thing, he loves everyone and will grab your face with both hands and over you in open-mouthed baby smooches each and every time you pick him up. A truly, truly atrocious sleeper, so I'm perpetually wandering into rooms and forgetting why I went in there in the first place, and I haven't finished more than a handful of sentences in far too long, but I have a vague idea that this is the effect a baby is supposed to have on your life so I'm just going to with it. He's desperately trying to crawl, but so far only has a little backwards shuffle down pat. He's endlessly backing himself into corners and yelling in gibberish until someone comes to rescue him.

Boys are a new thing for me, growing up in a house with three other women and all, so every day is a new learning curve. Fart jokes, Ben Ten, cars, football and mud are commonplace. I only expect it to get worse.


Goodnight. A xx