A.k.a.

The Boy. Swiss Dom. Domzilla. Vommy Dommy. DomDom. Dommy Domster (see also Dommy Domster Domsteroonie). Scragger Harris. Little Man. Sgt Domster. And, last night, LL Cool Dom.

I can see how people turn into "...actually his name is Dominic" types.

Peep-o

You can't mess with a classic (1.1mb .avi file)

Say hezbollah, wave goodbye

First words aren't all they're cracked up to be. On telly (and I'm thinking of a particular episode of Friends here) infants always move from gurgle-gurgle to a clearly enunciated 'Mum!' or 'Daddy!' (or some hi-lariously chosen other word) much to the astonishment and delight of whoever might be in attendance. A comedy double-take normally ensues. Dominic, however, has been gradually working up to variations of Mummummummum and Daddadadad for weeks now without any sign of knowing what they signify or adjustment according to whether it be me or Helen in the room. We were resigned to holding out for an earth-shatteringly impressive first sentence until on Sunday he reportedly blurted out 'Hezbollah' on his way to church with Helen. Perhaps I shouldn't have the bathtime radio tuned into Radio 4?

Apart from that, Dom's other 'big' development has been waving a lot. It started with him waving me back off to work after lunch, which was highly cute and has I confess made me late on more than one occasion. Then he'd wave when visitors left (they loved it too). Then he waved whenever you left the room. Now he waves whenever you catch his eye. *Wave* *Smile* *Bigsmile back* Great.

Also, one day they will erect statues.

Silver surfers

As if you weren't already getting enough Dom-centric snappy goodness, Dominic's Grandad has stumbled onto t'interweb with a gallery of his photos including some of the Greatest. Boy. Ever. Good work Dudley.

Crowded in here

From a book Jo and Luke bought us,

Or what about the things they put in my cot? Some nights I get in and it's like trying to find a seat in an over-crowded rail carriage. Okay, I admit that by now I know some of the chaps who share my cot, but honestly I'm really only on nodding terms with most of them. For heaven's sake I'm trying to sleep in here, don't I deserve a little space of my own?

The same book had a chapter titled, "For Six Months, I Thought My Name Was Gently".

Bear with me

I'm messing around with the underlying program, so things may look a bit odd for a bit. Done. Cheers for the help Dudley. And, of course, Jo.

Good has triumphed over evil, the recent comments page has been reclaimed and there's a new easier way to leave comments. Take a couple of minutes to sign up with typekey and posting thereafter should be a much simpler affair: no more popups, no more signing in and , if you wish, your own little about page where you can reveal as much or as little as you'd like. But if you want to do it the old way, that's okay too.

But hey - enough of my yakkin' - normal service returns soon, honest.

Keep 'em keen?

The next shot, had I not decided that perhaps I'd better put the camera down and intervene, would have been Dom trying to gouge out Evie's eye. I particularly like the 'surely you ought to be helping me' look that she's giving me in the last pic.

Basso profundo

Given that to so many I'm the Barry White-alike that grumpily answers the phone before passing it on to Helen, the following theory may raise an eyebrow amongst some of you.

In recent days, Dom has taken to unexpectedly and oh so cutely crumbling into nervous tears. His Grandad laughing, Webby making his usual understated entrance and Uncle John merely being in the same postcode have all reduced the little man to extremely hammy pick-me-up-and-cuddle-me-now wah!-ing. The connection we think is the deep voices and on a short-term experimental basis we'll be recommending Donald and Davey Stott impressions to all prospective baby-sitters.

Not lacking ambition

Calm down dear, it's only an advert

On account of being eco-warrior hippy types and God's-own-county tightwads, we have very nearly from the get-go been clothing Dominic in reusable nappies. We chose these particular ones on the grounds of their cheapness, 'organicness', versatility and how cute the picture on their website was. We found the people at Schmidt Natural Clothing to be extremely helpful and loved getting stuff delivered in whatever cardboard box they'd chosen to recycle and poring over the handwritten amendments to their catalogues (too wasteful to throw it out just on the basis of a typo). We've since recommended them to others who also now use them and much prefer them to disposables. This entry has been a blatant (and in all probability feeble) attempt to boost the google rating of this excellent washable nappy company.

That said, tonight Helen's recycling went a little too far when I found my curry had been 'enlivened' by the addition of a 'tasty roots' meal that Dom had decided not to eat. I am not at all sure about this trend (though tonight's curry was actually very nice).

He'll grow into it