My Gorgeous Baby (reach for the sick bags…)

In my previous post I wrote about how difficult my new baby is. I said she was demanding, noisy, awkward – in short, a bit of an asshole. And while none of that’s changed, one thing I mentioned has to be amended – that’s she’s not obviously beautiful.

She’s suddenly gorgeous.

See, while I always thought her sister could be a baby model, Rosie I considered a little – how shall I put this? – aesthetically unappealing by comparison. Whereas my first daughter Izzie looked like a photo from the side of a nappy pack, Rosie was more likely to feature in a painting hanging in the foyer of the Houses of Parliament. I mean, she had the triple chin, piglet eyes and a face so fat its BMI must have been around 35 – all she needed was a cigar and you’d have thought she led the government through World War Two.

But now that her milk rash and peely skin and swollen cheeks have cleared, and she’s making eye-contact and smiling and giggling like a good ‘un, she is the prettiest baby in the world.

Yes, I know I’m her dad and this is all pretty standard parent stuff – waxing lyrical about how wonderful your child is and how she’s more beautiful than anybody else’s, as though you’re the first people in history ever to procreate – but I have to do justice to the fact that I’m suddenly being stopped in the street everywhere I go by people telling me how pretty she is.

Like yesterday, when someone told me she was a ‘very bonny baby’, which, given somebody said practically the same thing to me last week, makes me wonder just how many Scottish people are living down here on the south coast. Or today, when the health visitor couldn’t get over how precious she is, and said her picture could grace the side of any nappy packet, which you might have realised is almost the greatest compliment a parent can be paid in my book. 

So it’s not just me – she’s objectively gorgeous.

What a difference ten days make!

Still an asshole, though…

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