Namely

What? That was a whole month? Already? All I remember is about three or four hours worth of screaming, all of which seemed to be happening at about three in the morning. I may have slept for the rest of it. Either that, or my brain isn't working properly because of sleep deprivation. Although that could just be the sleep deprivation talking. Apologies, one paragraph in and I'm already rambling. There's too much going on in my head to be coherent, and all of it is the equivalent of insane monkeys trapped in a cupboard and biting each other.

The baby's name is C, after some discussion. I realise that my stylistic use of capitals isn't terribly helpful here, but there you go. Even F took this on board after a couple of weeks - she's not much of a one for naming things, usually. Her rabbit is called Kanin ('rabbit' in Swedish, although BunBun in English at least), the baby doll C gave her as a getting born present is called Baby. "The baby must love me very much," she said, on getting this last item.

(She has also, in passing, picked up V's tendency to refer to stuff she's temporarily forgotten the name of as 'thingy thingy', as in 'hand me that thingy thingy over there'. F uses this for anything she doesn't know the name of yet, which covers a lot of ground. If I ask her what she's doing in our room after a long, suspicious silence, and get "I'm going to put the thingy thingy in the thingy thingy" as an answer, it doesn't really leave me much wiser.)

I vaguely recall the three months or so after F was born. These shadowy memories are only present because I wrote about them at the time, in this very blog. Without that, I'd have nothing. Unravelled care sleeves and nothing else. Quite a few parents of multiple kids told us during the pregnancy that having more than one kid doesn't make a big difference, it's not really much harder. This can be put down to the same brain damage, it's utter cobblers.

It's no more worrying, that's fair. I'm not suffering extra night terrors as I imagine roaming bears devouring my young, for example, in the same way I did when F was born. I have a rough idea of what's normal for an infant, which way up to hold it, how to change a nappy without barfing, that kind of thing. So I'm no more stressed than I was before.

I'm doubly exhausted, though, which helps nobody. V and I grouse and snap at each other as we lurch through the days, each sourly jealous of any rest the other gets (at least, I speak for myself here - V may be too tired to care). Everything feels like it's always your turn to do it, even if it's clearly not. This is particuarly irrational in my case when it comes to breast feeding.

C is sleeping in two to four hour bursts, mostly. Broken nights are tough. Getting pooped on regularly during them is even tougher. C can poo clear across a room, in a stream like a WWII flamethrower. She's sprayed me out in public. She's replastered the bathroom at 0400. I want to wear a butcher's apron when I go to change her, but I'm afraid it might send the wrong message as a parent.

She sleeps between us in the bed, she's made it very clear she doesn't like being alone. So I've been woken by a stream of milky vomit being deposited into beard in the middle of the night. It's a sadly depleted beard, I had to trim it for a job earlier in the month. This is a lucky escape, I think. It was rancid enough without yoghurt stalactites being added to the mix.

As F is now on her summer holidays, we can't really rest while C sleeps in the day, as we could when F was little. Instead, we  cook unsauced pasta one more time because that's what F wants for lunch. Or pretend we're going to clean the house properly ever in our lives again, that kind of thing. Or sit on the floor and play Playmobile People Go to Hospital.

I do, at least. F is still very much the Pappagris. V isn't allowed to help, show affection or (sometimes) talk without permission. Actually, neither am I, but I'm also the go-to parent for any problems that might be ongoing. This is tiring, even if it's also endearing. V only gets the tiring end of that stick.

F is very fond of her little sister, at least. Hugs and kisses all the time, especially when C is asleep. Screaming Ambush is one of her favourite games right now, that's another great one to play with baby during afternoon nap time. C doesn't mind in the least, she's clearly interested in F already. She'll scream blue murder if I can't warm up a bottle in under two minutes, but F can bellow 'YAAAARGH' at her out of nowhere and she just gazes intently, as though filing it away for later use.

F's favourite bit at the moment is nappy change. She knows babies get angry when you change them, so she comes to help sooth C. Mostly by shouting "No!" at her to try and defuse the situation, but the intent is there. She's religious in her attendance, though, perhaps because of a renewed interest in bowel movements.

Yes, we're doing potty training again. Because we're bloody idiots, and not cleaning up enough crap at the moment, clearly. Some mild successes so far, after a limited start which needed three dress changes in twenty minutes. F has taken on board that grown ups don't wear nappies, but is quite cross about it. Doesn't see the point, maybe.

She insisted on following me to the toilet this afternoon to watch. "What are you doing now?" she asked. Well, I'm sitting uncomfortably whilst waiting to poo, thanks. How are you? And then came one of those dreaded questions.

"What's that hanging down underneath daddy's tummy?"

Say penis. Go on, daddy, say it. It's not a bad word, it's an anatomical label. Nothing to be ashamed of, not even yours, and a usefully clinical term in later life. May as well start with it.

"Er, well, it's a willy."

Not even 'my willy', you massive copout. Just somebody's willy, that happens to be hanging about under your paunch. It just wandered in here and hopped into your lap, did it? Or maybe you're looking after it for a friend. Idiot.

F considered this intelligence and then laughed. "Ha ha! It's funny," she said, and then wandered off. So much for pride.

At least the name has stuck with her. Names in general, in fact. Now C is offical nomenclature, she's started naming her toys. This has begun with her smurfs. She's called one of them Adolf. Okay, Adolf after Starke Adolf, the strongman in Pippi Longstrump, but all the same, it's not an auspicious start.