So, April. Welcome, welcome. The waters have receded, the sun is shining (at long, long, last) and the hanging basket is, well, hanging. We have reached that milestone of early baby-hood that is 12 weeks and I can just about see the baby fug beginning to lift and allow myself to remember the joy that is more than three hours of unbroken sleep. If this all sounds unbearably twee, believe me it isn’t. As well as juggling the demands of Mini BB (food/cuddles/sleep repeat ad nauseam), we are gearing up to enter the seventh circle of toddler hell that is potty training. Shudder.
Having moved Little BB to a big boy bed (or at least freed him from the prison of the cot-bed bars) with considerably less trauma than feared (though he still has yet to work out how to open his bedroom door. Can’t wait for that one), we move inexorably on to the next rite of passage, which all the books assure me will, once conquered, make my life immeasurably easier. In the meantime, however, I am to expect if not actually hell then certainly purgatory. And am apparently required to display boundless enthusiasm and endless patience for an activity whose most vocal cheerleaders are, in my view, best described as niche.