And then there were three

Today, Sonny becomes just that little bit more our son.

Our confinement lady, who has largely been the first port of call each time he commenced bawling, is bidding us farewell. For a month, she's done her darnedest to keep him in good spirits and hygiene - on top of handling the housework and dispensing lashings of advice.

Now we'll be left to manage things on our own, with Sonny fully our responsibility. To an extent, of course, we are sorry to see her go, and are certainly grateful for her contributions. We've learned many a trick just watching her in action, and even a recipe or two to boot. But it'll also be a relief to have our little abode to ourselves again, to reclaim some of our lost privacy. No outsider has ever stayed that long with us: It has been an experiment in live-and-let-live. She, too, has had to bear with Mum's ignoring some of her professional suggestions: Traditional Chinese strictures against reduced showering post-delivery, for instance, have not been heeded. She's taken this with good grace, no one has pulled out too much hair, and we've enjoyed chats about childcare and her colourful former life, which included stints in the restaurant business and rubber tapping.

Sonny will surely notice the handover today. It will be felt in the assuredness with which he is clasped, or bathed or changed. Too bad if you preferred the premium service, kiddo: Normal service, so to speak, has just resumed. But if we are to be honest, lurking somewhere within us is the hope that, somehow, he's always liked the ministrations of his own parents best.