Guess what? We have new chickens! Four little henny penny’s ready to lay me delicious eggs, lots of them please ladies. They are at the point of lay but no joy yet, I’ll keep cooing at them and feeding them warm porridge on these frosty mornings because I spoil my hens. Crazy chicken lady. Let’s not talk about the demise of their predecessors and their fateful end, shall we? No. Good.
This little poppet has started sleeping through the night again, still no more than two bottom teeth to show for it though. Not much of a cough-cough remaining either (in the morning waking up yes, but not all through the night like it was) but she is still always – like, always – rattly chested. Meanwhile, her hair is getting quite the length to it too, so the other day I purchased little itty-bitty-teeny-tiny hair ties. Eeeee!!!
Swimming lessons are going, well…swimmingly! Matt likes to scoff and eye roll a lot when it comes to Eleanor and her swimming lessons, asking her how many laps she did and other such hilarity. With a big ol’ dam right next to our house though I don’t find swimming lessons much of a laughing matter. Last week I really noticed a big difference, Eleanor’s word association is really good now once she learns something, so “kick kick kick” and off she goes! And “ready Eleanor? Under!” and down she bobs, big gasp of air preceeding. She can ‘swim’ to the edge of the pool from about a metre away with a good push, reaching her chubby little hands out to grab the edge. But hands down the most stressful part of parenting I’ve found so far? Getting a wet and cold and crying and tired Eleanor dressed after swimming, when I’m wet and cold too, sometimes wanting to cry. True story. Give me a newborn in the middle of the night any day. Thankfully now we’re a little more experienced we’ve got a dry/change/get mummy dry/change system down pat, and it’s much better. Phew.
The jeans situation is getting dire around here. My beloved Sportsgirl numbers which I bought as a lowly uni student have finally become far too ripped to even wear in the garden, which means they must now be banished to the rag cupboard in the shed. This all means that the hierarchy of jeans now moves down: a ‘good’ pair, becomes a ‘farm/garden’ pair, meaning only one thing: I need a new ‘good’ pair of jeans. But where are they all hiding? Preferably lighter coloured (my other ‘good pair’ from Jeanswest are a darker shade), slightly distressed but not falling apart, skinny leg without being horrible elasticated fabric which is hardly ‘denim’? Tell me!
Meanwhile, what’s with all the babies at the moment?! That stork has been busy. And when the stork’s busy, you know my crochet hooks are going ten to the dozen, yarning over and hooking through bonnets galore to keep these little Winter bubba’s soft delicious smelling heads warm. We’re off to meet Eleanor’s new baby cousin, Rafael, on the weekend – hurruh!
And still, despite my denial…the inevitable is happening. Eleanor will be one in June. Next month. Oh. So naturally, a party is planned, of the Peter Rabbit variety. Better get my head out of the sand about it all though and strap my skates on – much to be done before the big day!
What’s going on in your neck of the woods?
How many chickens is the perfect number? We feel four is good for us.
Is it raining babies around you too? I love it!