Strange days

It was two weeks since touchdown on Friday. We're still coming to terms with his landing.
"Jaysus he's great," I'd tell Jenny, until his face suddenly crumbles and he threatens spontaneous combustion as he gives vent to some unseen and indeterminable ailment which apparently tuts him very weh. WAAAAA WAAAAA WAAAAA!!! Sometimes he sounds like an alarm. Just when you think he's finished, when you dare breathe a sign of relief, he starts again. He was only gathering his breath.
Christ he's loud. Jenny's taken to stuffing paper in her ears, and I've discovered too loud is possible – my eardrums had never complained of such treatment before.
In fairness to the nipper, he doesn't cry that much – not as much as other inferior nippers I've been led to believe – and once we determine the problem and/or he forgets about it, he’s back to his usual self.
The rest of his noises are simply brilliant, possibly his greatest attribute. He neighs softly like a little horse, and as mentioned before he grunts a lot, and sighs like he’s bearing the future of the €uro on his little shoulders. He’s also taken to squeaking like a rusty wheelbarrow. He squeaks at every occasion, and the hilarity is only increased with the hiccups, a common occurrence. Not only that, he’s a noisy eater, slurping and snorting as he’s suckling, while not forgetting the grunting and squeaking. “He sounds like a truffle pig,” I told Jenny.
He doesn’t let the hiccups put him off his grub, so he was sucking, slurping, snorting, squeaking, grunting and hiccupping all at the same time while feeding yesterday. A truffle pig with hiccups. He beeps too. Must have been a submarine in a former life.
He’s still peeling out of his first skin – Ally McPeel as Jenny calls him – but unlike your wan he looks puzzled as he looks around at everything. He hasn’t a clue who I am, nor can he understand why I keep writing about him, but I presume he can smell the grub off Jenny. Having said that, he tried suckling my arm today. That fella would drink anything. Must be the Irish in him.
He doesn’t like hats, preferring instead to let his luscious locks cascade around his shoulders, and he likes the fuss of having his nappy changed, having servants attend to his needs, although it could be just that His Nipperness doesn’t like a nippermess.
He doesn’t seem to worry about peeing or farting in front of visitors, but I think this is a good thing – he’s comfortable in his skin. I think I might follow suit. He had his first bath last week and LOVED it, stretching out and oozing himself into whatever may happen next.
We’d the first excursion on Wednesday, when we brought him out in his pink pram for a spin. (The pram was cheap, and we didn’t know whether it was a girl or a boy at the time, although once we got it, we somehow knew it was a boy, and damnit I’m happy his pram is pink. It will mess with the locals’ heads and make a statement if nothing else. It also squeaks, throwing down a challenge to its inhabitant.) He slept the whole time, or pretended to at least – a deep sleep without beeps – but it may have been a cunning ruse for he was inconsolable that night and the next. Must have been the shock of seeing Pankow.
To avoid further unpleasantness we went in the other direction for our walk yesterday, towards Mauerpark, and despite the fact he pretended to sleep again, I’m happy to report a relatively fruitful night’s sleep last night. (Not that we were eating fruit all night – I mean sleep was actually had.)
He woke me up this morning by sneezing in my face – Jenny had placed him strategically beside me in the bed – making it the first time I’ve ever been woken by snot. Normally this would not be a good way to start the day but as soon as I saw him I realised these are strange and wonderful days indeed.




    I know babies produce all sorts of noises and fluids, but I really had no idea they peeled like lizards and snakes.

    I dunno, dude, maybe the nipper was overcooked in yer wan's oven.



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