It’s Jim-Jam’s 9-month birthday today. Yikes, how time flies. I realised the other day that he still doesn’t own a pair of shoes. I am a terrible mother. I spent all the money on shoes for me. (Donation lines are now open for The Little Match Boy.)
In truth I’ve never seen much point in shoes on babies who aren’t walking. So far we’ve been getting by on his Trumpette socks that look like shoes, but he’s levelled up again in the last couple of weeks. The shuffly army crawl has been upgraded to a proper knee crawl – and he’s now pulling himself upright into a standing position whenever he has something sturdy to grip onto. (Mostly this means that I hear him cry in his cot and, by the time I get there, he’s standing up and grasping the bars like a weepy convict).
So I took him to a shoe shop yesterday and got his feet measured, but he’s barely on the scale (bless!) The lady said to come back later, but in the meantime I can put him in ‘pram shoes’ if I want to get him used to the sensation of wearing shoes. So be it. However all of the ones that I can find in Twickers are dreadful twee things, so I have asked auntie internet to help out.
What else? Well his top teeth have popped through… and the bottom ones have become proper little pegs. “Ouch” is all I have to say on the matter.
Oh, and he claps. It’s so cute – he learned it from Ava (the baby that you can see in the background here) and now he does it all the time, especially in the bath and if I start to sing ‘If you’re happy and you know it…‘
These new developments have screwed up his sleeping routine which is all over the place at the moment. It’s hard to predict how long he will nap for and what time I will get him to sleep in the evenings. Some days he’s out like a light. Other days he’s wide awake and bawls in outrage at being put in his cot. On those days I tend to just let him stay up until he falls asleep on me and then stealth him into his cot. (If Gina Ford were dead, I’m sure she’d be turning in her grave.)
But what care I? Apart from the odd spot of teething, he remains resolutely a cheerful little devil and will play for hours on the floor by himself as long as he has plenty of toys. It’s a godsend! If only he weren’t so reachy and obsessed with electrical cables, everything would be spiffing.