There’s A Joke Here About Helicopter Parenting, But I Lost Half My Brain Cells When I Delivered The Placenta, So Insert Your Own Witty Title Here

We are home.

We are settled.

Ronan is such a chilled out little dude, he boobs, he sleeps, he fills his pants a lot.

Declan obviously loves him, he’s just far too cool to show it, but he’s the first to call me when his baby brother cries and won’t go to sleep without giving him kisses.

Connor LOVES Ronan. He wants to hold him 24/7, he’s aghast when I put him down to rest in our bedroom instead of in the lounge room where Conman can set himself up next to the bouncer, place his face five inches away from Ronans and stare creepily at the little dude while he sleeps.

But I have no time to write long missives that I want to. Ones about how much I love my evolving family, how boys continue to be strange little creatures that I don’t think I will ever fully understand and how brutal the realisation that taking home a living baby doesn’t fix even half the dead baby issues that I thought it would.

Because the moment I look away, in this instance to make a cup of tea, I hear shuffles, shortly followed by giggles, and then eventually a call from my eldest…

“MUMMY! Look, we made Ronan into a helicopter!”

And they had.

Like I said. Boys are strange little creatures, fortunately they’re also mildly amusing as well.