The baby passed the six-month mark the other day. She's still such a baby baby - it boggles me when people start their four-month old on solids (I've become very good at quoting the WHO's policy on solids and flippantly spewing "Food before one is just for fun!" in a slightly demented and pat manner).
Sometimes she rolls but mostly she doesn't. Sometimes she sleeps well during the day but mostly she doesn't (this morning is a rare, RARE exception. I'm awaiting talkies and squawking any second).
She smiles a lot and is irresistibly ticklish, and baths have just become great, awesome fun.
Recitals and concerts are like second nature to her now; she sat through my teachers' concert and then a student fundraiser the next weekend; the last two Mondays have been ballet dress rehearsals (Mummy in a tutu is apparently quite THE entrancing spectacle) and I wonder how this idea of normal will behoove her. We live in such a strange world, of ipads and touchable technology, and yet not strange at all, as I crochet a dress for a Steiner doll by the time-honoured method of measuring against another that fits. Then I stop and realise that to a baby knitting is just as strange as a blinking cursor, and that all my normal and strange is just - to her - new.
Last week we moved out the bassinet and moved in the cot, and all over again our 'big girl' who wears 00 grow suits was transformed into a tiny new baby. Much as I love putting her weight down and watching her sleep, I think I like scooping her out again at three am better, because the next time I wake it's to her soft sleeptalking with eyes still firmly shut, waving hands that rub her face and a sweet pout. She's awake.