So much has changed since my last post and yet, so little. Now seven months old, Kit has been racking up a lot of 'firsts'. First solid food, first cold, first ear infection, first holiday, first fag (menthol, obviously. We're not animals) and first taste of pig.
At first I objected when Spud handed him a piece of crackling to gum, mostly because I wanted it and could see a lifetime of mild resentment ahead, as I'm continually denied the last sausage or roast potato for the Favoured One. But I have to admit, the fuss he made when he dropped it made me proud. Already he appreciates the flavour of swine and craves its fatty goodness. We're going to get along fine.
He's also become more serious, as is appropriate for his more advanced age. No more can old ladies expect an easy toothless smile in response to their happy wizened features. Now, they get the Jedi Death Stare. And if crackling still isn't forthcoming, the finger.
Spud has returned to work part-time so her mum looks after Kit for those days and stays over. I know that for many men this would be too much to bear, but I won’t hear a word against my mum-in-law. She's up at the crack of dawn to soothe Kit, she looks after him while we go to the pub, she brings amazing homemade Indian food and she irons my pants!
They don’t make them like that anymore. I'm not saying they should, I'm just saying it's nice there's still some around. It's no wonder old boys hark back to the good old days – they were waited on hand and foot. They did hold open the occasional door though, let's not forget.
Introducing solid food hasn't reaped the sleep benefits we'd hoped for, though there have been other, more malodorous, developments, often with notes of toxic sludge.
He still hadn't slept through the night until the other night, when Spud and I went out to have some boozes and listen to a reading from I, Brute by its author, Malcolm Bennett. After a fine night of entertainment and Doom Bar at The Glad, we feared the night feed. Happily, we all slept through to a civilised hour.
Maybe Kit's trying to tell us something – go to the pub with your wonky friends more often. That's how I interpret it, anyway.
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