The original UborkaHaza was opposite a small railway station, which location had its pros and cons. It was possible to run back to the house and change your shoes between buying your tickets and getting on the train, should the need arise. The house was so dusty that it was never worth actually doing any dusting. Late night drunks occasionally vandalised the car or had slanging matches across the tracks.

Last night a teenage boy was killed when he climbed the gates at the level crossing, to cross the line. If only he had realised, when he chose not to use either of the two footbridges, that today they would be littered with cellophane-wrapped floral tributes to his idiocy. Bernard and I walked past the station tonight, and the schoolkids have placed a row of candles along the station wall.

For Pete, the tragedy is that his parents have poured their energies into raising that child for 17 years, only for him to throw it away on one terribly wrong decision. We think in a very parentcentric way these days. I look at older boys and try to imagine Bernard wearing those falling-down jeans, coming home with a tattoo or an unsuitable girl, driving an unroadworthy car. We can’t teach him not to make the wrong decisions, or to think of what it means to us every time he does something dangerous, or even to call home occasionally when he goes to university. But our parents didn’t manage to teach us not to make the wrong decisions, either, and we manage to get by.

That teenager was somebody’s baby too, with a mum who thought she would never be able to let him go. I pray that a tattoo is all I ever have to worry about.

Alice says that the reason Bernard doesn’t roll over yet is because his big fat cloth-nappy bum impedes him. Nonsense, I say. Babies managed to get mobile for hundreds of years before disposable nappies were invented; he will find a way. I reckon I simply don’t put him down often enough.

He sits just fine. He has a very nice posture, and also a very cute baby-slump which he adopts when examining his feet. This week he is mostly saying words beginning with B. Well, not words, but utterances of some kind, which are clearly very important: ba-buh buh buh buh burra BU!, that sort of thing. Pete thinks he is trying to say papa.

He had a good day with his childminder on Monday, and a very good night: only one night-feed! I could get used to that. But yesterday was business as usual, refusing to feed for the minder, and then snacking all night. My mum advises me that we need to get him moved into his own room soon, or it will get difficult. I can’t see it being less difficult to get up four times a night to feed him somewhere else, and he’s too big for the rocking chair now, and I need to get at least snatches of sleep, so for now I’m afraid he’s staying right where he is: in our bed.

This morning we went out for a coffee, and Bernard held court while the other babies either snoozed or were not yet born.^[1] His minder says she finds that he has to be involved in everything, and is very curious and observant. I don’t see that this is a problem, though; if I had the strength to hoik him around in a sling, he would be even more involved in things; as it is, he sits in his high chair while I cook, or beside me on the sofa while I check my email. That’s not to say he never gets abandoned in his playnest, where he fiddles with the dangly toys and tells them stories about things beginning with B.

On Wednesdays his minder drops him home on her way out, so I find myself watching the clock at this time of day. If he has had a good day, then we will play for half an hour and then have tea (fish pie). If he is very hungry I might feed him first, in which case he won’t be interested in his actual solid tea. This week he has tried kiwi fruit and avocado, both of which were yum-yum; and cous cous, which was rejected.

What I would really like is a good night’s sleep ready for work tomorrow. Thursdays are boo.

1. Laura’s baby is due today! [↩]