Getting used to things. Again. Moving from parent of one to parent of two is endlessly new, endlessly fascinating, endlessly sleep-deprived.

The events of my last post have passed, as I knew they would. Did it have to be three loads of laundry later, though? I go into this half-awake world of acceptance, where it doesn't matter how many shirts I have to change into. It doesn't matter that I've given up redressing the infant with the food-retention challenge. Infant is snuggled and swaddled in an endless stream of clean flannel blankets and warm clean towels. A pile builds in the corner of stained and slimy t-shirts, interspersed every four layers with another skirt or pair of pants that failed to escape the drama.

His tiny lordship is feeling better now, curled on my lap and looking up at me with the biggest blue eyes I've seen since his sister was this size. He is taking more by mouth, has pulled out his NG tube again, and I'm reluctant to put it back in place until I absolutely have to. Some of that is due to not wanting to put him and me through that procedure, of course. Most of it is purely selfish.

You see, I've come to adore gazing at his little face when it's not obstructed by tape and tubes. Absolutely adore it.

Besides which, he's supposed to be pushed gently towards all feeds by mouth. So we can ditch the tube forever.