Love, jackdaws and farmyard impressions.

1. A pair of teenagers lie wrapped around each other on the birds nest swing on the coldest, clearest day of the year so far.

2. The sound of jackdaws -- chack! chack! chack! -- and lying on my back (with Alec giggling on my chest) to look up at them.

3. I'm making cow noises and chicken noises for Alec. I suddenly realise that the mmm-mmm sound he's making is... mooing!

Bread, across the world and being good.

1. Lots of soft white bread to mop up the juices.

2. How lovely to come across an Antarctic colleague of Rosey's at a dinner party in Tunbridge Wells.

3. Louise tells Alec he's been very well behaved during dinner. She says: "You let Mummy relax and enjoy herself." That, to my mind, is an excellent definition of good behaviour.

Washing machine, winter tea and apricots.

1. Every time I stuff a load of washing into the machine I think of generations of women with reddened hands, and I'm so grateful for modern appliances.

2. It's a winter tea time -- which means mugs and biscuits in the front room (curtains tightly drawn) and some family TV watching: Timmy Time and The Adventures of Abney and Teal.

3. I love those brownish unsulphured apricots -- they are so caramelly and juicy, like a sweet, rather than a dried fruit.

Baby, boys and the radio.

1. Controversially we gave Alec a small baby doll for his birthday. It is very gratifying to see him bounce it on his knee in the same way that we bounce him -- he looks gleeful when I giggle on Baby's behalf. And if you think that's adorable, you should see him snuggle Baby into his shoulder for a cuddle and a back pat.

2. Susan brings her two-year-old for morning coffee. Alec follows Lawrence round the kitchen and he looks like a boy, not a baby. If he could talk, he would be saying: You know Lawrence? Guess what he says?" and "When Lawrence was here..." and "Is Lawrence coming round tomorrow?"

3. I'm telling Alec's key worker about his new trick. "When we mention the radio, he points at it, and not just to the one in the kitchen, but to our radio alarm clocks, too." And right on cue, Alec points to the nursery stereo.

Buy some new ones, chore time and scribble.

1. I put another pair of tights in the mending pile, and once again hitch up the pair that I am wearing -- they are too big because I've lost weight since buying them. It strikes me that all the tights in the mending pile are a size too large, and some of them need their mends mending. It's time to throw them out and get new pairs.

2. Rachel comes round to play with Alec for an hour. It's wonderful to whiz through the chores without him clutching my skirt. The best thing of all is that I have time to fold the washing and put the airer away in the cupboard.

3. I go to a coffee shop and do some scribbling in one of my neglected notebooks (the last piece in it is older than Alec).

Angry cat, striped and in the dark.

Among my Christmas presents were two books of short stories which I very much enjoyed, so I thought I'd share them with you.

The first is Some New Ambush by Carys Davies, out of the publishing house Salt. It's a strong collection of joyful shorts and short shorts with a fascinating range of voices, faces and places. One of them, Hwang, is near as damnit perfect as short stories go.

The second is Eugie Foster's Returning My Sister's Face, a pleasing book of Far Eastern folk and fairy tales. They are written for a western audience, but the necessary explanations are stitched in so sensitively that the join is invisible. Spirits and humans malicious, mischievous and benign meet and part and meet again. I particularly enjoyed the stories about the snow spirit -- I love to see a writer returning to a theme and giving it a different treatment each time.

1. Alec's current passion is the page in one of his books that shows the shocking sharp toothed face of an angry cat. He keeps flipping back to it and putting his fingers right in its mouth. I think he likes our attempts at the text: "EEEEEOWWWFFTZ!"

2. The striped shadows of railings fall across the path ahead.

3. To doze off in the afternoon and wake up in the dark.

Forget, quiet and bricks.

There are some wonderful River of Stones posts over at Writing Our Way Home. My favourites so far are:

• Dave Bonta whose Four Things I've Learnt From Writing Small Stones could just as well be applied to beautiful things
• Let's Hear What Our Bodies Have To Say by Dave Rowley
• Sarah Salway's Putting The Fun Back Into Writing (worth it for the glasses alone)!

1. It's amazing how milk makes Alec forgive and forget. He has a suck, and then he's laughing at me blowing under his chin.

2. It is easier and pleasanter to stay here, warm and quiet, with the baby on my knee.

3. Using Alec's wooden bricks to build a construction, a wall of towers and swaying bridges that snakes along the edge of the rug and under the folding chair. He knocks a little down, and I take the fallen bricks and build them on to the other end. He knocks a little more down. I take the up fallen bricks again. He look at me expectantly.

Nap before swimming, dog walker and ducks for all.

1. For the first time ever, Alec goes down for a nap before we leave for swimming. We had to get up at 7am to achieve this, but it was so worth it. I can get ready without small hands clinging to my legs, and when we come to leave we are both relaxed and cheerful and in control.

2. "Look, Alec, dogs," and the lady walking them turns to smile at us.

3. Instead of doling out one duck each, the swimming teacher releases a whole yellow flock into the pool. Alec ends up with three (one for each hand and one to kick). 

All alone, noodles and a good sleep.

1. Nick is still chuckling about the faces of the people next to us at Wagamama as it dawned on them that they were the only toddler-free group in the restaurant.

2. I love watching Alec eat noodles -- I don't know why I ordered rice for him really, as he was far more interested in raiding our plates.

3. Sarah and Rachel brought round a box of bath oils in tiny bottles last week. They explained that it was a gift of baths for me by myself -- which is a wonderful thing and very much needed! Each bottle has a label like 'relax' and 'deep relax' and 'breathe' and 'de-stress muscles'. I used all of 'deep relax' last night. It worked very well because I slept... well, I might say 'like a baby', but it was better than that (certainly better than Alec).

Petit dej, lie-out and on his own terms.

1. To shove frozen pain au chocolat in the oven. Freshly baked and very convenient. Better still, the baby doesn't want any so I don't have to share.

2. After breakfast, nap time comes around. Alec goes to his cot, and I go back to bed where Nick has been enjoying a lie-in.

3. Alec stands with legs wide, clutching his toy remote control. I've got his toy phone just out of reach to tempt him into taking his first unaided step. He stretches, looks at me, shifts his weight, shifts it back again. Then he carefully lowers himself to the floor and leans forward to take his phone.

Strike out, nursery and in our bed.

1. I look at my to-do list, and I look at Alec in his cot fast asleep for his morning nap. Then I run myself a bath.

2. I take another step in my mission to make the nursery Alec's own room by sorting out the pile of his outgrown clothes. I can remember him wearing that sleep suit with the bears, that little green and blue shirt, that cardigan... but surely he was never that little.

3. At 10pm, like new lovers we ask each other: "Where are you going to sleep tonight?" The answer is: "In our bed, with you."

Porridge, out of my depth and in the study.

1. There is something very satisfying about spooning porridge into a small and eager mouth.

2. I've volunteered to do some shifts at a night shelter this month. I was roped in by a friend, and frankly I feel so far out of my comfort zone that I can't even see it any more. I was glad when Anna asked a question along those lines at the training session. I was even gladder when other volunteers asked questions, too. And when we started to make jokes.

3. "Do you want to sleep in the study?" Nick asks me. I say 'asks', it's more of a telling really. I am so grateful to have an undisturbed night in front of me.

The walk, new view and cafe stop.

1. We set off on an epic mission to pick up a Freegle item. It feels good to walk and walk and walk on a clear afternoon, knowing that we don't have to be anywhere until supper at 5.30pm. 

2. I hadn't realised that our destination has a view out over town. It's strange to see the other side of familiar landmarks. I like to compare the scene to my map and pick out the re-arranged churches.

3. I've walked for a long time, and Alec has been cooped up in the pushchair all that time. We need a cafe stop. We share a brownie and a hot chocolate, and he works his way round the table and back again to stretch his legs.

Delivery, after the storm and afternoon nap.

1. The wind slams rain against the white wall opposite with such force that it flies back as mist. I stare astonished at the delivery driver standing on the doorstep.

2. After lunch I open the blinds. The air is still, the sky is blue and the sun has come out.

3. The storm and a bad night have unsettled Alec and he has been sad and clingy all morning. But now he's asleep in his pushchair and I am not needed.

Epic, warming him up and lunch.

Over at Writing Our Way Home, Fiona and Kaspa have started their River of Stones, a mindful writing challenge. Fiona's stones are a bit like beautiful things, so go on over and try writing your own. They are also publishing inspirational articles by their favourite writers. I'm booked in for January 21.

1. Alec sees Nick in the spectator gallery and sets off on an epic commando crawl straight across the paddling pool. He refuses to divert his course for anything -- not water jets, not a mother playing with her  baby, not a large toddler with a ball.

2. Alec gets chilled while swimming. He's a very sorry little scrap by the time we get to the changing room. Somehow -- I don't know how -- I manage to dress us both while giving him a feed.

3. For our lunch Rachel has set out cakes and sandwiches and a rainbow of raw veggies. It's perfect. Alec helps himself to two gingerbread men, one for each hand.

Highchair, walk after lunch and childcare.

1. "We've bought the highchair," says my mother. "I couldn't face the thought of lunch with him sitting on your lap and my lap."

1a. I love fish pie for the treasures of prawns and mussels and scallops.

2. Finally, just before dark, we make a break for it and go walking under umbrellas and the pit-pit-pit of rain.

3. My cousin Laura says: "I'll entertain this end while you change that end." I am awed by her childcare skills -- she helps a family with a disabled child -- and when I tell her she says modestly: "I suppose it's easier when they're bigger because you can ask them to stay still and they do."

4. The Christmas books are stacked in wobbly towers around the living room. "Let's make one evening a week book night," says Nick. "We'll just sit and read."

Open door, sales shoppers and mayonnaise.

Happy New Year, everyone. Hope 2012 is a magical cracker for you all.

1. "Well," says one lady in the chemists to another, "This is a first, having the door open on New Year's Eve because it's so mild."

2. The shop girls are laughing at the sales shoppers: "They're like 'but how much are these things? Why aren't they priced?' and I'm like: 'I'm just putting prices on them and setting them out. The sale table is over there.' And they're all like: 'But are these things in the sale? I NEED to KNOW.'"

3. "I love your mayonnaise," says Nick with no little passion.

The long nap, off the floor and husband.

1. After breakfast, Alec and I sprawl on the bed and  have a very long nap -- so long that lunch is almost late.

2. It is disgusting when your baby picks things up off the floor -- and not even your own floor -- and tries to eat them, but it's rather endearing when he offers such 'found food' to people sitting at the next table.

3. When I go up -- quite late -- I find that Nick is in our bed and not sleeping in his study.

Oil on water, I saw and peppermint creams.

1. Lenses of oil on water magnify the bottom of the bread tin.

2. A man and a woman are talking outside the window. Only the child on the man's shoulders sees Alec in his blue cardigan waving and smiling.

3. A box of peppermint creams in opulent red and gold foil printed with moons and suns and stars. They look as if they might have magical properties -- with this one you'll see the future. This one will make you sprout (temporary) wings. That one has a flavour now lost to history. Another will give you visions of paradise.

Birthday boy, ta-da and simple amusements.

1. "Happy birthday, manlet." This morning -- it's really stretching the definition of morning, though -- I don't mind helping Alec back to sleep in the small hours.

2. If I have no pocket, I stash my handkerchief down the front of my dress. Alec has a habit of pulling it out. He looks as proud as if he'd produced the flags of all the nations, a bunch of flowers and a live dove.

3. To watch him anticipate. He giggles before a 'boo' or the popping of the weasel. He holds his breath for the turning on (or off, either will do) of the radio. And he flutters his fingers greedily when I offer him milk.

First word, gifts and my time.

Alec was one today. He seems big and little at the same time. I'll write more about him tomorrow.

1. Maggie's first words are reported on Facebook. We like and like and like.

2. We open -- it's a slow business, though -- a couple more of Alec's Christmas presents. He takes his time, stripping off tiny pieces of wrapping, tasting them, offering them to us, getting distracted by the contents of the previous parcel. I wish I was more like him.

3. Everyone else is in bed. This is my time in my kitchen.

Snoring, found and in the dark.

1. Uncle Rob carries Alec, fast asleep, in the backpack. When asked if he is all right, Robert complains: "He's snoring."

2. To see, in the twilight, away up the road, the missing blue boot.

3. I go to the sitting room, but no-one is there. Black needle shadows. The Christmas tree glows softly in the dark.

Tiny tree, conference call and book.

1. Outside our bedroom door is a wooden cart with a baby Christmas tree on it. "For Alec," says my mother. He touches the red baubles with a gentle -- gently, Alec -- finger.


2. Rosey is down at the bottom of the world -- just a conference call away from a family Christmas. She says the weather is good, and she's going skiing later, though there's a chance she might be needed for co-piloting.


3. We'd been told that he would prefer the wrapping paper to everything else. In the end, it's a book with a finger puppet that lights up his world.

Peace, home and he's come.

1. Nick needs some peace, so I take the baby in the backpack (there is no room to get the pushchair out because of all the packing) and go to the park. It's quiet and cold, and children keep asking why Alec is not wearing any shoes. "He's growing too fast," I tell them. I wonder what their parents are thinking about my baby standing on the roundabout in his socks? We sit together on the big swings and he dozes against my chest while I sing fragments of songs. Another mother and son are on the other two swings -- but he's about ten times older than Alec.

2. The beams are laced and lanced with holly and ivy, and we are home for Christmas.

3. The sound of the back door and Robert's modest 'Hello?'

New mother, new baby and baby in bed.

1. I go round to Katie's to meet the new baby. Chloe is asleep in her pram, and Katie is eating bacon and eggs. We have tea and cake and laugh and cry -- new mothers cry about everything, and I'm just relieved and happy that my friend has come through safely and that the baby is beautiful.

2. She is so still, so gentle. Her movements are like those of a slow, soft creature swaying in a rockpool. She opens her eyes a crack, closes them again. Her tongue tip pokes out, and goes in again.

3. When I go upstairs after clearing away the supper things, Nick and a clean, dry, Alec-in-his-sleeping-bag are playing quietly on the bed. "That was the best bath for a long time," says Nick.

The swing, roundabout and lingering.

1. Alec laughs -- and shows all his teeth -- when I push him on the swing.

2. She is small, but she looks kind and sensible, so I put Alec on her empty roundabout and stand back while she pushes him round.

3. Alec's key person comes back from lunch just as we arrive at nursery. It's the first day that I don't have to go to work, so I dawdle in the baby room while she finds her slippers. I like to linger over unbuttoning him, and to watch him take in the changes to the room.

Piggy, mix and affordable.

1. I discover that what Alec really likes -- what he really, really likes -- is to have 'This Little Piggy done to his toes'. I think he must have heard it at nursery, because he anticipates the wee-wee-wee part, and I'm sure I've never done it with him  before (the reason is that I find the 'I can't find my way home' line a bit upsetting. Even when I change it to 'all the way home', the other version is still lurking).

2. Louise says she likes Carluccio's because it always has a mix of business meetings and children. "It's an odd combination," she says, looking round at the high chairs and the men in shirt sleeves and women with leather notepads.

3. "Crafts should be affordable," she says as we load up with hand-stitched notepads (stamped with 'made in Tunbridge Wells') and ceramic Christmas decorations in petrol blue and scarlet. I'm really drawn to the feather-thin birds, but they are unglazed, which is my own fingernails on a blackboard. She seems surprised when I mention this.

Tickets please, Christmas lights and nap time.

One of today's beautiful things reminded me of another sort of journalling that I missed out of the essay. I save my train tickets for bookmarks, and I write notes on them about the journey. Sometimes it's just where I was going, or the purpose of the journey; other times it's a few words to jog my memory about the day ('a row of birds'; 'cable theft in Maidstone'; 'the proud man'). Our train tickets are about the size of a credit card, and have orange stripes on the front and a black magnetic strip on the back. Some of the conductors carry patterned punches -- I've got tickets punched with a dog's paw, a dolphin and a semiquaver.

The stack is an inch thick and goes back nine months at the moment -- this depends on how much reading and how much travelling I'm doing. I keep it in a battered green tin painted with a Japaneseish scene of flamingoes. When I need a bookmark, I take out the oldest ticket (it goes back about nine months at the moment). When I finish the book, I leave the ticket in. Where the book goes, the ticket goes.

During my holiday in Africa, one of my travelling companions remarked that a lot of the books in the truck's library had tickets to and from Tunbridge Wells tucked in them. I confessed to my bookmarking habit and he said that he reckoned one day he'd pick up a book in a far flung place and find a Tunbridge Wells train ticket between the pages, and he'd know, he'd just know, that it had passed through my hands.

1. Alec has a passion for train tickets -- we often give him a couple to wave around. He likes it when we say: "Tickets, please. Tickets, please." Today I let him empty my bookmark tin. He lay on his back and dropped handfuls on to his face -- he looked like a caper movie character enjoying his ill-gotten gains. He bashed two together. He concertinaed a couple and pulled them open and shut. Then he dropped them, one by one, on to the floor.

2. To turn on the fairy lights and make Alec smile.

3. Oh blessed, blessed nap time. I sit on the sofa, wrapped in a red fleece blanket and rest. 

Eating, TV and the sleigh.

1. Alec -- who has not been eating much (apart from raisins and milk, don't ask about the nappies) -- picks up a fragment of my bread and puts it in his mouth. And takes it out. And puts it back in. Chews and swallows. I tear off another (raisin-sized) piece.

2. We've been enjoying Abney and Teal.

3. Tim texts to say that he and Rachel are loading up the sleigh and coming down. Oh my goodness, the boxes for Alec -- I've never seen anything so magical. His Christmas and birthday piles are like something out of a children's story with a very happy ending. Tim says rather sheepishly that he expects Alec will enjoy the packaging more. But he promises that Nick and I will enjoy the contents, too.

Morning baby, the noise and finding a tenner.

1. I've had a night -- alone -- in the spare room. When Nick brings Alec up in the morning, I am very pleased to see him with his soft baby hair, plappy hands, four-and-a-half teeth and his skinny legs and big fat nappy bottom.

2.  When Alec is happily engaged in something, he often makes a little noise that sounds like "um-hum". It has a resigned cadence similar to "heigh-ho" or "oh well". This morning, he says it as he takes himself off the breast. 

"I really like that noise," I tell Nick. 

"So do I."

3. At the cake stall: "I've got enough for one cake. Which would you like?" And then: "Ohhh, Nick, I've found a tenner I didn't know I had. You can have as much cake as you like."