Welcome to our world little Louie Maurice
An array of new sounds can be heard in the Curtis household any time of the day of night.
The click of a kettle, a clockwork egg timer counting down with a rhythmical 'tick tock' to its inevitable 'drrrring' and the cries of a newborn baby waiting for a bottle to warm. (Don't judge me on not breast feeding – I have my reasons).
Yes, Curtis Junior – Louie Maurice – has arrived. He was born on September 6, after an uncomplicated three-hour labour in a hospital room which afforded me a lovely view of the cathedral as I delivered him standing up with a midwife poised beneath me ready to catch my baby boy.
Mr C didn't even get the chance to eat the pork pie he had packed or read the newspaper he had bought in preparation for a night of pacing.
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The birth was all over and done with in a flash, more of an intense sprint if you will, less of a marathon.
Mr C was suitably amazed, traumatised and a little in awe following this physical feat. For several days afterwards I would catch him looking from Louie in his arms over to me with what can only be described as hero worship.
I was on a pedestal for at least a week and I lapped up every second of his admiration for the female form and its ability to bring a new life into the world.
And now, almost seven weeks on, life is settling into a new pace with family dynamics shifting.
Mr C has been a hands-on dad, more so than he was with our daughter Lottie. I'm not sure if it's because Louie is a boy, if he feels more confident around a newborn, or whether he's finally matured (I suspect the first two are more likely). Whatever the reason, I am pleased he's on board with caring for his son.
There's nothing he hasn't tackled. Full nappies, feeding, winding, rocking. He has stepped up to the plate and dare I say it, where I might have treated him like deputy parent when Lottie, who is almost eight, was a baby, he is by my side with our new addition.
Apart from night feeds, I haven't managed to get him to do one of those (yet).
As for Lottie, she adores her new baby brother.
I'm not sure she makes that much of a distinction between Louie and her Baby Annabel doll.
Sometimes I catch her scooping him out of his Moses basket and plonking him on the sofa next to her to watch CBBC, or plucking the dummy from his sleeping mouth only to shove it back in when I pop my head around the door when I hear him stirring.
Yes, the main challenge is teaching Lottie to step away from the baby and let a parent take over.
A bit like Mr C, she is very keen to be Mummy's Little Helper, maybe a little too keen. It's all I can do to get a cuddle with Louie when Lottie's around.
As for sleepless nights? Well, it goes without saying we are enduring those. Thank goodness for coffee, eye cream and catch up TV.
Much to Mr C's chagrin, even if I am in bed by 8pm some nights, I have yet to miss an episode of the X Factor (again, don't judge me too harshly, it suits my fuzzy baby brain perfectly).
In case you are wondering, we didn't name Louie after Mr Walsh from the same show, despite him being born the weekend it returned to our screens.
Even as I went up to the labour ward we still hadn't decided what to call him and in the end it was Mr C who named our child.
I have a vague recollection of my husband talking to the midwife in the labour suite as she registered our new arrival and hearing him say, 'that's Louie – L.O.U.I.E.' At that moment I was too spaced out on gas and air to question it. Just as well I like Mr C's choice of moniker, eh?
Columnist Sam Curtis, 43, lives in Lincoln in a house that's not as clean or tidy as she'd like with her husband, football writer Leigh, Lottie, 7, and new arrival, Louie, seven weeks old.