There's another post to go in the birth story saga, but it can wait. All the flowers have died now, and the laundry is again swamped and there are milo splodges on the tiles, so it's basically back to normal now. I was worried about this stage, worried that the euphoria might have worn off and I'd be in the "what have we done!" camp already, but I'm not.

He is beautiful and easy and so much a part of our family. The baby paraphernalia just melds in with the usual chaos, and in the middle of it is the Possum, serenely sleeping away. He is the snuggliest baby, sleeps forever and almost never cries aside from when we change his nappy. He is just not a nudist. He has a pointy chin and the most knowing eyes and a dent in the middle of his nose that is slowly filling out. His ears are still fuzzy but as his eyelashes and eyebrows are growing in. I stare at him for hours, watching the fleeting expressions on his face as he nuzzles in closer.

The girls are in love, the Monkey especially is effusive. The Elfling likes him quite a lot, but is upset that I won't let her do much of the caring for him. She likes to be helpful though, and as long as she feels needed she is happy. We went to the Lifeline Bookfest yesterday and she and I trawled through table after table for finds (sadly no Trixie Beldens this year) but she found a My Little Pony book and a Fairy book so was rapt.

The Possum just slept it all away in his sling, sighing occasionally. He is a champion feeder, and after a brief stint as Dolly Parton I'm slowly settling down enough so that I don't drown him with every feed. He hates being naked as I've mentioned, probably to do with the cold (it's near freezing in Brisbane in the mornings now) but we had a shower this morning and curled up like a little frog on my chest he seemed very happy. The girls both hated being "splashed" even though they loved baths.

Being a family of 5 seems so strange and so foreign but so right at the same time. I feel stretched sometimes, but at the moment it is pretty easy. Family routines kicking in and him just slotting in around the rituals of bedtime and mornings and ballet classes. I look at all my angst and want to laugh at it, but know that it's not now that will test us, but the weeks, months and years to come.

I don't regret it for one second though, my secret fear that he would be born and I would still harbour that little bit of resentment. But how could anyone regret perfection?