Samuel at seven months'

Babies are weird, aren't they? After a weekend of misery, we've just had a couple of days of giggly, bouncy, unmitigated joy. He's been a delight. I don't get it. It's like they instinctively know when you're feeling tired and broken and pushed to your limit, so they spend a little time reminding you why you took on the gig in the first place.

He's seven months' old today. Still no teeth, but he can just about sit up on his own, he can roll (but mainly chooses not to. Lazy.), he can pass things from hand to hand and is a pretty dexterous little chap. He recognises his toys, and people too, I think. I reckon he's starting to hit the shy and clingy stage because he gets upset whenever I leave a room (I've never felt so popular).

I think he's desperate to do more than he can do – it's like he has things to do and places to be, but he's annoyed that his body can't get him there just yet. He doesn't just want to stand and walk, he wants to Riverdance. He's got busy legs that are always kicking, and his nickname at Monkey Music is Michael Flatley. It won't be long before he's mobile so it's time for us to start baby-proofing the flat in earnest – everywhere I look I see sharp corners and towers of boxsets ready to tumble.

In the meantime, I am going to enjoy the toothless gummy smiles.