Look at that fat little foot (hers, not mine). These were both taken a while ago during various 'out-and-about' adventures. Interestingly, I think they're getting harder on me. For some reason I'm becoming more aware of 'the baby' and distracted with how she's coping in a new setting. Maybe I wasn't taking the first few months seriously enough? Maybe, as I secretly suspect, the Little Laide disapproved of my apparent casualness and so pulled stunts such as laying crying in her own vomit and launching herself from a counter. These traumatic epsiodes worked to establish a deep-set guilt in this novice Mum. Now, when she cries, I fret that she's drowning again in puke and I hurry to her. I toy with the idea of imposing a cry-it-out regime but know that even if the rest of the household is begging for it, I'm just not ready. I can actually feel the tension in my shoulders as I ponder her well-being during many moments of the day. Saying that, on our latest trip to the swimming pool I lay her down for a nap on the floor while I showered. She was on a couple of our towels but I did wonder about the hygiene of it all.
Shea came in a little after us, looked at the makeshift bed and asked if it was clean?
"I put two towels down to make sure," I answered.
"Right," he noted, looking a little sheepish, "I was actually worried about the towels but it's good that she's not on the floor. Right, yup, that's good, yup."