the adlards

She’s certainly not “unchanged” in the Bilbo Baggins sense, but “well-preserved” doesn’t remotely do justice to my gran at ninety. She’s a spritely 90, a vibrant 90; a little more wrinkly than last year perhaps; short but not as short as the pic suggests – I liked the lighting, but she’s rather unfairly surrounded by the branch of the family made up entirely of giants (not this branch. Clearly.).

Family descended from all over and we had breakfast together at Kirstenbosch. Doff had fun.

Except for our sandpit, which didn’t quite wait for the end of the treehouse before beginning.

Pics in the gallery. Don’t ask about the treehouse.

Never a dull moment. Daytime. Night-time. Anytime.

I wouldn’t trade being a father-of-girls for anything. Michelle and I were laughing yesterday about the number of people who have commiserated or said to her, “Oh your poor husband” on hearing that we’d had another girl. Now there’s a wonderful cultural anachronism still alive and well.

Emily is thriving. She’s been smiling and making eye contact in the last week. The two big girls are as full of life as ever. Josie is sleeping in a tent each night at the moment. Sophie is developing a gratifying love for books and both girls are producing masterpieces of fine art every five minutes or so – MGW has a magnificent collection of implements for little girls to use to make pictures.

So life rocks on in this Adlard household.

Every little girl’s must-have accessory.

… suddenly, inexplicably (?), people start calling you “baba” (“father” in Zulu for those of you not local). “Hello baba, what can I do for you?” at reception; “Bye baba!” at the parking exits at Cavendish; “OK baba” when I don’t-want-to-buy-one-thank-you.

Oh dear. I saw a very nice vintage replica Vespa that I think I should be riding.

that fall about us in a shower leaving a scent on the evening air that’s reminiscent of others. Tens of hundreds of thousands of others that were beautiful too. And each one we rush through and we wish gone and we wade through neck deep in delicate petals that we don’t see and rush through and wish gone and gasp through to reach martini time and sleep, again.

The two “big” girls and I have colds of such significant stinkiness that I’ve had to go and find the strongest French Roast I can just to be able to taste my coffee. Oh the shame.

We thought we’d celebrate two weeks of Emily’s life with a little fly-by.

Boeings in formation over the swimming pool.

Supersonic jet and tasteful foliage.

I was reading Angelina Ballerina’s Baby Sister to Josie this evening:
“Why is Angelina angry Daddy?”
“She’s jealous, Josie.”
“What’s jealous?”
“She feels her sister is getting all the attention and she’s getting none.”
“What attention?”
“She feels like everyone’s spending time with her sister and no-one’s spending time with her.”
“But that’s fair!”
“Is it?”
“Yes, little babies are very special.”