All the guidelines tell you that one of the signs that baby is ready for weaning is when he takes an interest in other people’s food, and I would say that in the last few days, this has started to be the case. rr can attest to that, having sacrificed half a panini to Bernard’s all-commanding pointy finger on Sunday.

The last few days, he has been sitting in state in his high chair, pointing at whatever we are eatiing: olives, strawberries, etc; and refusing to eat any of the lovingly prepared mush. Well, he has a long history of refusing the mush, but he has never shown much enthusiasm about anything else. Perhaps the fact that, at ten months, he still has no teeth, also supports the idea that he is really only just ready for solids.

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When parents describe sleep as broken, they are using the most accurate word. There is no better way to describe the way sleep stops being a whole, complete, good thing that you can enjoy once a day, for several hours at a time. Sleep is broken; there is no more sleep.

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If I seem to be hiating, ’tis only because of sickness in the family.

Over the Easter break we went up north to visit the mothers, and it went really well. It was our first time away from home with Bernard, and we were pleasantly surprised at how relatively easy it was. The mothers interfered only minimally with our parenting, and Bernard slept no worse than at home [and on one occasion, woke only once in the night]. Highlight of the week was when he first saw the sea. He stared at it, and frowned, and frowned some more, for quite a long time. Then he pointed at it. He points at everything of interest, in a proprietorial way. Then he started to sing his sleepy song, which indicated the end of any further need for stimulation on that day, thank you very much.

While we were away, Bernard’s eating improved, thanks to having lots of family mealtimes and plenty of interesting new tastes.

We got back on a Wednesday, which meant that Pete got a really good long break, since he has Thursdays off work to be a Stay At Home Dad. I checked in with the boys a couple of times, and they both assured me that they were having a lovely day. Bernard was reported to have eaten more than he ever has before in his life, so I looked forward to a restful night.

He was in bed asleep around 7, and we settled down with a pizza and a bottle of wine. At 8.30, the baby monitor started emitting noises of fluid. Much fluid. Much much vomit. An awful lot of vomit, and a baby lying in a puddle of vomit, and vomit all over the cot and on the floor.

We got him up and took all his clothes off, and ran him a warm bath, and he sat in it with me, looking bewildered and green. When he was lovely and clean and dry, and in new pyjamas, I gave him a feed, which he immediately brought back up. I began to think that this was not just the result of the day’s excesses when he lay pathetically on the bed, listless and still. We called NHS Direct, who said they would ring back in an hour, which served to make us all decisive; and we took him straight to A&E without waiting.

A&E are very good to neurotic parents with poorly babies, and looked after us well. We spoke to a paediatrician around 1.30am, and she told us it was a stomach virus, and warned us to expect diarrhoea, and to bring him back if we didn’t see any wet nappies in 24 hours.

I spent Friday breastfeeding him like a newborn, and he slept a lot. He didn’t produce any wet nappies. On Saturday morning we returned to A&E, where we were made to stay until such time as he did a wee. At 2.00pm, he finally filled his little bag with precious golden liquid. Meanwhile I had contracted the stomach virus, and spent most of our wait lying pathetically on the bed, listless and still.

Today it is Pete’s turn. Bernard is largely better, and I am only a little queasy and very tired. Pete has slept all day, pathetically on the bed, listless and still.