Sense of scale, treasure house and checking the colour.

1. We pass boys in blazers walking home from the grammar school. The first years are tiny under their huge rucksacks. Then I look at Alec in his pram and they seem like giants.

2. On a grey day of blurry rain, the bright fresh colours of fruit and vegetables in the cavernous green grocers are very appealing.

3. While I am feeding Alec, Nick brings my cake in so I can see if it is properly browned.

4. There was a romanesco cauliflower in our veggie box. We spend some time after supper admiring its mathematical spirals and pinnacles.

Picture from Stock.xchng

Smiler, out and pie.

1. Alec wakes from his post-mid-morning-feed stupor and gives me a selection of wide, gummy smiles.

2. A new draught excluder keeps out prying fingers of cold air.

3. This round steak and stout pie is as cheerful as the sun on a day that promises fine weather.

Late riser, greeting and my work.

1. I get up before Alec and do a few chores before he wakes.

2. While pushing the pram round the park I am smiling so much at the thought of Alec that a boy on a scooter smiles back and says hallo.

3. I realise that there is nothing of Alec that has not come out of me -- 50 per cent of his genetic material, vitamin K and Infacol notwithstanding.

Real world, it's in the tabs and rite of passage.

1. It's a day of visitors. First PaulV comes round to meet Alec and take a few photos. Then in the evening, Katie and Jules drop by for their introduction. It is so good to see some non-baby people.

2. We tell the midwife about this morning's baby grow filler poomagedon experience. She shows us how to put a nappy on -- properly this time. "You can do the tabs up tighter than you think." And despite the extreme off-loading, Alec has put on a pleasing few ounces.

3. While Nick gets ready for bed, I sit at the kitchen table typing a post one-handed with Alec on my knee.

Picture by Paul Viney

Recall, sleeping baby and comforts.

The baby now has a middle name: Alexander David Law. My grandfather was called David, and as they share a birthday it seemed appropriate. I hope that Alec will also share some of his qualities

1. I leave the house without Alec for the first time. I'm just going across the park to Hoopers to pick up a birthday present for my mother. On the way home, I think of Alec's particular baby smell and I want to cry.

2. I sit in bed on the phone to my aunt, while the bomb-proof baby sleeps on in his basket.

3. Nick patiently comforts Alec after night feeds while the wind goes its way. Alec is still getting to know his digestive system, and finds the whole thing very alarming. We tell him it will pass, and that he'll feel better, but he wrings his hands anxiously and there's a very puzzled look about his eyes.

Blue hat, great grandmother and progress.

1. Fenella visits, bringing encouraging words and an offer of babysitting -- it means a lot to have a diligent and skilled mother willing to do this for us. She also brings some clothes, including Alec's first blue item: a knitted hat the colour of hyacinths. We put it on for his walk round the park. It suits him so well that we (very) briefly consider Hyacinthus as a middle name.

2. Granny Pat comes round to meet her first great grandson. He was born on my late grandfather's birthday, which pleases her very much. She salutes Alec smartly, and tells Nick "I was in the army for two years."

3. We're getting on better with the feeding -- mainly thanks to lanolin and a very supportive husband. Nick administers the Infacol, helps with positioning and records the time and length of each session in a notebook. He winds Alec afterwards, and gives us tonnes of praise. Our first 20-minute feed made me feel on top of the world. Alec just burped.

Baby tip, historic homes and what I liked.

1. A lovely comment from Julia on this post about my beautician's take on night feeding. I can't wait to tell her that her thought has touched someone else as well as me!

2. We watch a historical documentary, At Home With The Georgians, in which Professor Amanda Vickery describes the origins of good taste and home-making using diaries and letters. One of the voices was particularly touching: a gauche bachelor of 24, writing in code, who was worried that his nerves would make him unable to get his future wife (he didn't marry until he was 43) pregnant.

3. Last thing at night, as we are falling asleep, we talk about our day: "I liked helping you with the dusting." "I liked the mashed swede." "I liked your sausage casserole." "I liked..."

He got through, card and redwing.

This post at The Refrigerator Oracle -- Open Your Eyes! -- is a good one for all 3BTers.

1. Frost ferns covered the empty milk bottles huddled on our doorstep -- the snow has defeated our milkman since Monday. Today I wake to the dull clunk of Nick bringing two full bottles into the house.

2. The first Christmas card, hand delivered.

3. Over the wall in the neighbour's bird feeding tree, I spot what looks like a thrush -- but there's something slightly off about it. It lifts a wing and displays a russet patch -- oh, a redwing, of course. I hope it has spotted the pyracanthus berries over the road.                                    

Meeting for coffee, Christmas shopping and shift.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving, all you USA people. Today, I'm thankful for a trouble-free pregnancy.

1. A bunch of yellow roses, a toy giraffe for Baby Badger and someone else's baby sitting on my knee and grabbing my nose.

2. The delivery man puts a large parcel in my hands.

3. The midwife says that Baby Badger has shifted over to a better position -- just hoping it can keep up the good work until the big day.

Winter window, not going out and in capable hands.

1. The florists who did our wedding have the most fantastic winter window display -- glass round-bottomed flasks, each containing a single white exotic flower, suspended on fishing line and surrounded by fake snow and silver glitter.

2. Using the internet to cut a swathe through the Christmas shopping.

3. Nick takes over supper, turning sausages and mashing potatoes and carrots while I catch up with my emails.

Cake, guest bed and parent talk.

Susan emailed to let me know that she'd posted her 'how I found 3BT' story on her blog, Notes from Innisfree. It was mentioned in a sermon at her church -- so thank you to that pastor, whoever you are!

And I had another message this morning: Sandy wanted to tell me about the 1,000 Crane Mission -- a project to release 1,000 paper cranes, each inscribed with a positive word, into the wild. I really love these projects that reach out, hoping to touch the lives of random strangers.

1. My mother appears, and she has some cake.

2. We have guest staying tomorrow night. I hunt down the bag of visitor's linen and make up the bed in the attic. 

3. We have our first NCT class. They separate the mums from the dads to help us mix. We're talking about how we've found our pregnancies. We can hear the dads roaring with laughter next door. "They're just talking about beer and football," someone says. When we are alone again, I ask Nick what they said. "We talked about when it came real for us. I told them about Baby Badger kicking me in the back."

Earlier, shoes and found in the fridge.

Natalie commented the other day to say that she has started her own 3BT blog. Go Natalie!

1. We think we should probably get up. I guess that it must be at least lunchtime. It turns out that it's only twenty to eleven.

2. Nick's dad is still thrilled with the results of his cataract operation -- "The curtains when I woke up the morning after. All those reds and greens." Plus he is thoroughly enjoying the sharing of his gory eye surgery story. Now he has gout -- but it seems that even this cloud has a silver lining. He can fit into a pair of shoes (the colour of a freshly picked up conker) that were previously too big. "They're handmade, look, beautiful. We found them in a charity shop for £6."

3. "This is going to be more of an amuse bouche than a bowl of soup," says Nick looking anxiously at the single serving that is going to have to do for two of us. But there's some cream that needs finishing, and leftover cold potatoes in the fridge to help it stretch -- and he's baked a fine loaf of bread, too.

Lie in, practice and clean bath.

1. Nick has a day off, and we sleep in until almost noon.

2. The carrycot portion of Baby Badger's transport arrangement arrives. We put it together to make sure it's all in order. When I come into the sitting room where Nick is watching a baseball game, the cot is in the corner. "I'm just practising," he says.

3. The bath bomb -- which smelt deliciously of orange and spices -- has left brick red scum round the bath. It's very satisfying to clean it off.

Dressing the baby, dancers and technical fault.

1. The postman knocks -- he has a large but light parcel. It's a set of baby clothes, handknitted by Heather. So now I have something soft and warm to wrap my baby badger in. The little shoes make me want to cry.

2. I'm working upstairs in the early evening, and the window is open because the attic can be stuffy when the sun has been shining. I can hear the mechanical clack-clack clack-clack of a flamenco class in the TocH Hall.

3. All my biscuits fall through the wire cooling tray. "We need one with smaller holes," I tell Nick (who is proud that he has bought the finest baking equipment money can buy. He points out the bleeding obvious: "Next time, bake bigger biscuits."

More sleep, bread pudding and making a risotto.

1. I am not waking up this morning. It is pointed out to me that I am growing a baby and probably need the sleep for a reason. The next thing I know, it's half past nine.

2. There is a satisfying heft to this tin of bread pudding.

3. Finding a perfect slice of mushroom in the packet of dried porcini. And the smell of vermouth boiling off in my risotto.

Baker, quiet and half-hour hole.

1. Nick has baked a loaf of fruit bread overnight. It's very good for breakfast with butter and jam.

2. Tinny mobile phone music behind us on the footpath. Off button.

3. Even half an hour makes a hole in this work.

Rain in August, save and new bread.

1. To go outside and find that a little rain has fallen on a warm day.

2. Thunder storm: save your work.


3. I unlock the door and the house smells of new bread.

Nesting, caution and Blue.

1. Sarah Salway gave us a nestbox for a wedding present. I think it brought us luck in our house-hunting. Nick has come up with a cunning plan that allows us to wire it to the trellis in the garden.

2. Nick's dad rings. I say I'll call Nick down from the attic. "Tell him to be careful on those stairs."

3. Recently I friended a fictional character on Facebook. She's the creation of a friend -- a character in a TV series (I think) that he's working on about an institution for gifted teenagers. Blue Malone's gift is that when she holds an item, she knows things about the last person to use it. She writes up her diary on FB and posts snippets that she's picked up. She's been known to comment on her friends' posts, which is strange -- but pleasing, too. I've never consumed fiction like this before -- I know it's out there, but until now, I've never found anything that appeals to me. I think anyone can friend her -- try this link to her profile.

Post, late and fish on a dish.

1. "I'm going round the front to check for post," says Nick -- we should get a delivery to our door, but some of the postmen don't know that, and leave it with the mail for the other flats. He almost walks into the postman, who has a parcel of sewing things for me.

1a. I mishear 'nerve centre' as 'nerd centre'.

2. The lady at the table next to us flicks through her notebook. They ask if everything is all right. "He's always late. I'm looking for his number. I've got the vet coming at two thirty." They tell her that they will hurry her meal through when he arrives.
We are on our main course when he comes -- got lost on the motorway and parked on a yellow line. "I'll have a scotch on ice."
And breathe.

3. My mackerel is arranged in two little towers on a foundation of spinach. Each is tailed by a green smear of -- licks fingertip -- wasabi. It makes me think of creatures leaving tracks on the seabed.

Domesticated, no cleaning and down the drain.

1. "I'll call Nick for you," I tell his mother on the phone. "He's just stuffing clothes into the washing machine." She laughs -- we're both so fortunate to have husbands who pitch in.

2. I like the time of the week when it is not possible to dust or wipe -- all the cleaning cloths are in the wash.

3. All quiet, but for the soft rush of bathwater falling down the overflow.