Eight months

Today Linnea is eight months old. Two-thirds of a year. She's had her first Christmas. She's standing independently. She's wary of strangers again, and loves music, though she doesn't seem to producce much - she sings occasionally and would like to play her xylophone but isn't quite sure how. She has eight clearly visible teeth and appears to be working on some more, but we can't really feel around for the new ones because of the nice sharp old ones.

I'm almost better, physically, I think - the stitches seem to have healed up this time, and I'm in much less pain than I used to be, and in more physical control. I still enjoy feeding her, though it's getting awkward now that she has teeth - they haven't yet come into play deliberately but there have been a few accidents. The inside of my head is still a no-fly zone, more or less.

Rob is exhausted, but I think less despondent, especially now that we have fewer social engagements lined up - we've had something scheduled pretty much constantly, I think, often including houseguests.

But overall, we seem to be trundling along nicely; Linnea is a happy baby, Rob and I haven't killed each other, or died of exhaustion, and somebody somewhere is bound to make clothes to fit the baby if we keep looking - last count, Marks & Spencer 12-18 month old size was just a little too small. Perhaps we should buy her a marquee.