Four weeks of George

In typical parent cliche fashion I can't believe four weeks have passed already. Where the bloomin' heck did the time go?
Four weeks since the chaos of paramedics and the dining room feeling like a sauna and looking like a crime scene.
Four weeks of big brother cuddles, kisses and requests to hold "my baby brother".
Four weeks of laundry, nappies and missed household chores.
Four weeks of flowers, cards and showing off the little fella (as Alby has named him) to friends, family and colleagues.
Four weeks of being amazed by how much Alby's heart has grown, how besotted he is and how tolerant he can be - I can't imagine I would be so accepting of a crying baby during my bedtime stories.
Four weeks of feeding, changes, co-sleeping, rubbing my cheek against newborn soft skin, staring at his ever changing face and admiring new fat creases.
Four weeks of humming, mewing, squeaking, grizzling, grunting and crying.
Four weeks of guilt, guilt that comes with every cry or twofold with a distressed shriek. Guilt that I don't cuddle him as much as I cuddled Alby, that I haven't spent as much time staring at his face as I did with Alby, that I might be doing it all wrong.
Four weeks of near identical photos.
Four weeks of living in a blur.
Four weeks of love.