Poor little Harper.
You are now 8 (and a bit) months old, my littlest friend.
I can't remember how life was before you arrived. You fit in perfectly.
Such a happy girl, so utterly deliciously cute.
You say Mumma now. And Bubba. And Dadda. And Isla. You clever chook.
You love to be outside, eating the grass, no less. You love your vegies, actually, you love anything that can be eaten.
You finally have your own room. What a joy. I miss having you at the foot of my bed, but it seems you're too cool to fret about poor old Mum. We lost your cot bolts when we moved, your mattress is on the floor, we tried you in the portacot, but your mattress didn't fit. We were worried about you wriggling and getting stuck.
I found you this morning on the floor. And you laughed.
You can almost crawl, my sweet little love.
Love you more than the stars in the sky, Harry High Pants. xx