Update ...

Olivia is going great guns, breastfeeding has been well and truly established and the weight is coming on in pleasing leaps and bounds. We have a healthy, happy, lavishly fed little daughter. At risk of sounding like I may be discussing a favourite old Labrador, her skin is soft and coloured a healthy pink, her blond hair is thickening and shiny, her jaundice has vanished and she's obviously getting all the nourishment she needs, to judge by the amount of time she is now finding between feeds to spend on experimenting with hiccups and gurgles (both of which appear to amuse her no end).

Runny commentary ...

Another interesting product of newbie parenthood status is the fascination (and I use that word in its literal sense, as the most appropriate available) that Tick and I have developed for the, hahem, "end product" of all this bountiful feeding.

"Wahay! Another poo! Well done!"

... item number 27 for immediate entry into the "Things You Never Thought You'd Hear Yourself Say" lexicon of parenting dementia.

It's strange, what parenting does for you. Without putting too fine a point on it, every few hours Olivia's rear end will now look like it was Ground Zero in an explosion at a Chicken Korma factory - and all Mummy and Daddy think is "brilliant, this is just what we needed!". It may be the lack of alcohol that (I have lately noticed, not without disquiet) appears to accompany the early days of parenthood, but surely there's something wrong in all of this.