In case you were worried, no, this isn’t turning into a mommy/mummy blog.
It’s still what is was before, a confused collection of writings by someone outside of her indigenous realm, but with a lot less Chinese food and international travel, and with the added touch of young Sir Thwacklemore as a shiny new housemate.
We’re still learning how to live with him and trying to figure him out as a person without the benefit of a common language between us. It reminds me of some very low level students I’ve had, but with the added bonuses of howling and nappies and nursing.
Thank god none of my old students needed the latter two, though a few did inexplicably howl.
Anyway. The new housemate. He provided the awesome bit for yesterday’s moment of happiness. Note I say moment because he was all grumbly and howly before it and was grumbly and howly afterwards.
But still, moments count.
He had just turned 10 weeks and so was summoned to the local surgery for his first vaccinations by his first official letter in the post, formally addressed to Mr Oscar Witcomb, as if he was the one who was going to get his letter opener out of the drawer, carefully slice the envelope open and pull out the letter, reading glassed perched on the tip of his nose, skimming the page and noting the date in his Google calendar.
Mind you, given his lineage, he must just do so.
It had been yet another long, sleepless night, with him scrunched up and squawky with digestive issues and me achy and worn out from a minor tummy bug, so we were both feeling rather grumbly and slightly shattered when I strapped him to my chest for the 20 minute walk to the doctor’s office first thing in the morning. It was pouring down with fierce diagonal rain that somehow soaked us under the massive umbrella I had opened over us. We had a half hour wait at the surgery while several other babies were taken in for their injections. I was the only one sopping wet with a baby strapped to me. Everyone else had driven over, I presume (they were dry) and had their (also dry) babies in massive strollers.
I felt slightly archaic, the stubborn, sodden local Luddite in a room full of automated looms.
A stubborn, sodden Luddite who didn’t want to metaphorically smash all the modern conveniences- it was time, after all, for Young Thwack’s 5-in-1 inoculations and oral dose of live rotavirus.
I’m all about the herd immunity.
Anyway.
The happy bit.
Unwrapped and dried off, Thwack was remarkably brave in the face of pointy needles, one in each thigh. A slight whimper after the second, bigger one. The nurses had me pin his arms down so he wouldn’t bash the needle into the wrong bit of flesh.
Then the live rotavirus oral dose.
Apparently, most babies spit this one out. Or they choke on it. Or they freak out from the unexpected flavour and texture.
Not young Thwack. No, he not only sucked the dropper dry, but also licked his lips and expectantly opened his mouth for more. The nurses had never seen a baby actively enjoy taking the rotavirus drops. My nerdy baby not only accepted it but actually actively enjoyed it.
Enjoyed drinking live rotavirus.
This bodes well for his future survival in a household full of ridiculous foodies.
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