My son is a whirlwind. Always has been. He rolled across the floor at nine weeks old. He crawled, walked, ran and climbed in his first year.
It’s kind of poignant that it happened over a broken Barbie doll. I’ve never felt comfortable with those tip-toed, big-breasted, doe-eyed things.
I was recently eavesdropping on a conversation between my three-year-old daughter, Libby, and our four-year-old neighbour, Nick, as they played outside. Nick: Do you have a boyfriend?
I always go overboard with ‘stuff’ at Christmas.
Mum never let me take sea creatures home from the beach. I remember many tantrums while begging to adopt a hermit crab or urchin.
This. This, this, this:
I make bald babies. Jonah is almost nine months old and pulls off the baldness well. He has a big, perfectly round head with a teeny, tiny smattering of white, blonde hairs on top.
Libby has been cock-a-doodle-dooing and flapping her arms all week. “Cheer for the Roosters!”
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