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"a portrait of my children, once a week, every week in 2017."

Stella: You're about to lose your front tooth. It's wobbly and hanging on by a thread. But you won't let anyone or anything touch it. Which means, a toothbrush hasn't passed your lips in several days. Food? forget it. We can't even get you to change your shirt lest the pressure of the fabric passing over your cheeks loosens the tooth from it's socket. 

Hugo: You have a funny relationship with time. You've been spending the last couple of weeks telling me, about how when you were my age. Like, "When I was your age, I used to drink beer." And "When I was your age, I was a grown-up and I drove a car. Isn't that cool?"

Lyra: You had your first round of injections this week. You cried as is normal, but then you calmed easily. You now weigh 5.4 kg, and gained over a kilogram in a month. You've moved from the 50th perentile to the 75th. As usual, all the fretting I've been doing about how much milk you're getting has been for naught.