It's autumn today.
I mean that in that it wasn't autumn yesterday, and it won't be tomorrow.
Our seasons follow a different pattern these days. Spring lasts a couple of months and winter runs from October to March. Summer is about five months long, hot in the middle and wet at both ends. (That sounds a lot like Harriet.)
Which leaves one day a year when the leaves turn from their verdant hue to crispy brown. Then they drop off, and that's autumn.
This season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is a blink and you'll miss it event these days. Its approach is heralded by a chorus of fireworks, which are let off all day every day from when they come on sale till they sell out, by work dodging, asbo morons.
Anyhoo, I looked out of the window this morning and saw that the trees lining our avenue had turned to yellow. It's all very pungent and pretty out there.
I love the smell of damp, rotting leaves. It's one of those potent smells that whisk me right back to my childhood. I have fond memories of crunching leaves underfoot with my mum.
I'll be taking Harriet out today to get a good whiff. It'll be more fun when we're able to kick about in the fallen foliage together, but we'll have to wait a year for that. They don't make wellies small enough for her tiny feet.
So, on to the subject closest to my heart:
There are some developments that bring with them sadness. For example, when Harriet begins to crawl, which can't be far away now, we will have to change our sleeping arrangements. At the moment we have a cot that butts up to our bed, with a small bolster to keep Harriet from rolling in to join us and getting squished by my enormous chest. From the first, terrifying night with our new baby, I have loved this arrangement. I have slept side by side with Harriet every night and have been able to reach over and comfort her or check her breathing, without hassle. On the first few nights we slept practically nose-to-nose.
And waking up next to her and having her beam at me first thing in the morning is just lovely.
When she is mobile, however, we'll have to move the cot from beside our bed and put its side up. She'll be away from me and caged, like the gorgeous little monkey she is.
So, when our little Miss Independent has learnt to crawl, which will be great, I will be just a little bit sad.
This week Harriet has begun to hug. Her dad and I have been eagerly awaiting this step for a couple of reasons: the first being that she clings on when we carry her about, which makes her much safer. And secondly, it's nice to know that she wants to hug us.
When I lift her up she wraps her warm, squidgy little arms around my neck and snuggles her face into the crook of my neck. It's just gorgeous, until she gets carried away and pulls out two clumps of my hair. I used to have such a thick head of hair.
Now I just have a thick head.
I have a feeling that Harriet will skip crawling and go straight to walking. She certainly knows what to do with her feet, although her style of walking could raise eyebrows. She's been marching back and forth this week, with our help of course, and it's very military in style.
I'm a little concerned, what with that and her penchant for epaulettes.
And me a pacifist.
I mean that in that it wasn't autumn yesterday, and it won't be tomorrow.
Our seasons follow a different pattern these days. Spring lasts a couple of months and winter runs from October to March. Summer is about five months long, hot in the middle and wet at both ends. (That sounds a lot like Harriet.)
Which leaves one day a year when the leaves turn from their verdant hue to crispy brown. Then they drop off, and that's autumn.
This season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is a blink and you'll miss it event these days. Its approach is heralded by a chorus of fireworks, which are let off all day every day from when they come on sale till they sell out, by work dodging, asbo morons.
Anyhoo, I looked out of the window this morning and saw that the trees lining our avenue had turned to yellow. It's all very pungent and pretty out there.
I love the smell of damp, rotting leaves. It's one of those potent smells that whisk me right back to my childhood. I have fond memories of crunching leaves underfoot with my mum.
I'll be taking Harriet out today to get a good whiff. It'll be more fun when we're able to kick about in the fallen foliage together, but we'll have to wait a year for that. They don't make wellies small enough for her tiny feet.
So, on to the subject closest to my heart:
There are some developments that bring with them sadness. For example, when Harriet begins to crawl, which can't be far away now, we will have to change our sleeping arrangements. At the moment we have a cot that butts up to our bed, with a small bolster to keep Harriet from rolling in to join us and getting squished by my enormous chest. From the first, terrifying night with our new baby, I have loved this arrangement. I have slept side by side with Harriet every night and have been able to reach over and comfort her or check her breathing, without hassle. On the first few nights we slept practically nose-to-nose.
And waking up next to her and having her beam at me first thing in the morning is just lovely.
When she is mobile, however, we'll have to move the cot from beside our bed and put its side up. She'll be away from me and caged, like the gorgeous little monkey she is.
So, when our little Miss Independent has learnt to crawl, which will be great, I will be just a little bit sad.
This week Harriet has begun to hug. Her dad and I have been eagerly awaiting this step for a couple of reasons: the first being that she clings on when we carry her about, which makes her much safer. And secondly, it's nice to know that she wants to hug us.
When I lift her up she wraps her warm, squidgy little arms around my neck and snuggles her face into the crook of my neck. It's just gorgeous, until she gets carried away and pulls out two clumps of my hair. I used to have such a thick head of hair.
Now I just have a thick head.
I have a feeling that Harriet will skip crawling and go straight to walking. She certainly knows what to do with her feet, although her style of walking could raise eyebrows. She's been marching back and forth this week, with our help of course, and it's very military in style.
I'm a little concerned, what with that and her penchant for epaulettes.
And me a pacifist.
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