Tove is long

Dude your Tove is long. It might not capture the gnomic essence of the original American aphorism, but bless my sainted aunt it is fact. Daddy. While distracted by the peunumbra of chud enveloping her dainty face, she has grown in length. She stands almost as tall as her mother and might even tower above her siblings and might yet rid the family of the half-dwarfism that was once so egregiously alleged. Apart from this embiggening, she remains a child dominated by sleep. She prizes sleep above almost all things, which is the very best of things (not hope as Andy DuFrayne makes you think). She can be put down in her moses basket, which is perilously close to capacity, and her circadian  rhythm will keep her there for 6 hours. 6. This is the magic number (not three as De La Soul preach). Indeed it is practically disconcerting. She falls into a deep cherubic slumber and seems to forget about that finest breast milk and indeed everything else.

She is quite partial to a kip in the day too, which is a little disconcerting but we can’t really remember what Nancy and Esther were up to at the same stage. I’m sure it will be fine. Alas, one sure fire way of her keeping her awake is to walk her in her pram. Once ensconced there, her eyes widen into vast white lakes and remain like that until you get home, with sleep, even when totally knackered, relegated to the fringes. Quite what unnerves her so much is not clear, but she is pretty clear that once in the pram she must widen her eyes and stare at you. It’s quite jolly but hints at some dark hinterland deep within that chuddy exterior. Or something like that.

Regardless of all this piffle, she is bloody marvellous and increasingly smiley. Which even third time round makes you hopelessly gooey.