Now I am 8 Months...

It seems sort of - well - inappropriate calling my baby a baby now. 8 months! I've grown eyes in the back of my head now; I've had to. One minute boy-o is on the rug in the living room next to me. The next - before I even notice he's gone - I'm tearing the house upside down trying to find him. There he is. In the laundry. Happily munching on blue tissue-paper foraged out of the rubbish bin like its a biscuit, ink staining little sausage fingers and the inside of his drooly mouth.

He's got three teeth now. Grew them all in the space of 3 weeks; little toothy-pegs that will one day gnaw a T-bone but are happy sucking a slices of buttered toast for now. And vegetables. And fruit. And blended meatballs. And a LOT of it. This boy is eating me out of the house, and he's only got 3 teeth. I will need a night-job to keep him fed in his teens....

And he won't hold still. Oh gosh no. Not for a second. Even when he's sleeping, he dreaming about moving. It's all I can do to keep him strapped in; his Safe-T-Sleep wrap is on its last legs, he can already get it open when he wants to. Which thankfully isn't often. Yet. Changing him is somewhat of a nightmare; it's all I can do to keep him on his back and I find myself inevitably changing his nappies while he is twisted upside down and back to front. Nothing nothing will keep this boy still.

And we're all taking bets on when my boy-o will take his first steps... he's thinking about it, we can tell. By 7.5 months, he was climbing up to standing, and a few days ago, he even let go of the coffee table he was holding onto for a few seconds. Fern walked at 13 months. I'm hedging on 10, for Elliott. He's that kinda boy.

We love you, Elli-boo. x