Baby + 116

Nous sommes sans chat. Yep, Baxter the feline resident has been "re-homed". I am sure this term would be scorned by most thinking cats, who perhaps would rightly recognise its essential dishonesty. After all, how many cats get a choice about being moved on? Baxter certainly did not. However, he is now living (happily, as far as anyone can tell) in Suffolk, where there are lots of small creatures to terrorise.

Our more perceptive friends forecast Baxter's departure. I played down these suggestions, rather rashly suggesting that it is quite possible for baby and cat to live in harmony. Unfortunately, Baxter's love of human company rather got the better of him, and he started to show signs of resentment towards our daughter. We judged it better to avoid this trend turning sour. He may reflect, with a sense of some irony given the popular view that his genus is diffident, that he was forced out because he was too attentive to people. How many cats are thus accused?

The only consolation for me is that this makes the "can we have a dog" argument easier to introduce. The fatal flaw at present is that we do not have room for a dog; nor, in my view, is the centre of a city a good place for a dog (Parisian streets being my argument). So, my prophetic friends may see the second of their predictions come to pass: we move from Central London. I would not like to be drawn on this subject at present, but there is a sad inevitability about this prospect. But whence should we go? I may consult Mr Donk Donk.

Baby + 105

I promised to return to the stuffed toy who is Mr Donkey, or, as he is sometimes known, Mr Donk Donk.

Mr Donk Donk came into our lives at Christmas. He did not come alone; he is attached to the baby gym. Unlike the other items attached to the baby gym he has power. To be more precise he is powered by two batteries. When he is kicked, Mr Donk Donk sings. Or, more accurately, his plastic and metal innards play one of three tunes, including Pop Goes the Weasel.

Our daughter is yet to make the causal connection between the application of force to Mr Donk Donk and his prediliction to play a tune. She does lie on her back and kick wildly, and sometimes those kicks lead Mr Donk Donk to sing, in the process proving one of Newton's Laws. (It is an interesting thing about Newtonian Laws that one can demonstrate them regularly without realising.) However, she does not intend to make Mr Donk Donk respond. I imagine she is oblivious to the source of the noise, which Mr Donk Donk may resent.

I have a rather love and hate relationship with Mr Donk Donk. I am happy for my daughter to roll around while he seranades her. It can be trying, though, when, late at night, I remove the baby gym and he responds with a couple of verses of electronic nursery rhyme. When it is very late, and even a city as busy as London is enveloped by a very profound hush, Mr Donk Donk's noisy optimism grates.

I should not be unkind for it is probably Mr Donk Donk's fate to end his days at a landfill near Croydon. I am often surprised by the number of children's toys that are discarded at our local "refuse centre". Many of my toys are still in my parent's loft awaiting a new owner. So, perhaps I should ontinue this tradition and preserve Mr D for future generations. I may even try and expand his range of songs.

Baby + 100

My daughter is now very long. In fact she is so long that she has almost outgrown her Moses Basket. I am not sure when Moses outgrew his own basket, but history relates that he was put to sail on the Nile when he was three months old. No one suggests what happened to the basket when the Egyptians found him. I suppose we will never know.

The big change in the last three or so weeks has been our daughter's increased command of the gurgle. For the first twelve weeks of parenthood I was exposed to three sounds: the wail; the sneeze; and the sound of the emptying bowel. The growth in her expressive range at first startled me: I assumed that her new high-pitched cry was a prelude to a full-blooded scream. On the contrary, her face was a picture of happiness, and the noise may have been provoked by her new found ability to grab Mr Donkey's (more of him in a future posting) tail. Because Mr Donkey can emit noise too, he responded in kind. The symphony of the baby gym was in full swing.

A consequence of my daughter's use of her vocal chords is that I talk to her more. There is no rational reason for this response, of course, but I suppose that if she gurgles in my direction that may signify an interest in what I am saying. This is rubbish, of course, but she does make a very rewarding audience, and is less inclined to pooh-pooh my contributions than other members of the household. And she is certainly a more gracious correspondent than the cat, who usually slides into a coma after three or four minutes of monologue. To be loved for one's lap alone is a trial.