Upsy Daisy

Maison Hairy are anticipating a mildly intriguing couple of days.

Tomorrow is Harry’s consultant paediatrician appointment, where I get to give my fears regarding cerebral palsy, dwarfism, depressed immune system and tongue ulceration their first public airing among specialist doctors. I’m not expecting too much in the way of actual outcome, mind you: Harry’s Dr is a fabulous chap but alas! only human. 

Harry’s repeated bouts of bronchiolitis have not actually resulted in a hospital admission as yet, and we see far too many babies in the course of a week for his constant illness to be considered odd. All he can do about Harry’s disappeared-off-the-bottom-of-the-chart 73cm height is continue to monitor him. He can watch Harry walk stagger and fall over like a tiny tiny tiny clown, and tell me that yes, the next few months will indicate whether he is merely an exceedingly clumsy little wobbler or if he does indeed have CP. And he can attempt to peer inside Harry’s mouth, whilst Hubby and I pray that our son does not immediately sink all his 11 teefies into the man who was bleeped out of bed the night he was born to save his life. But he can tell me what we should do the next time Harry refuses point-blank to eat for a fortnight. And we get to see if the hole in his heart (clinically insignificant VSD, no symptoms, don’t worry, yes yes yes, I know) looks like healing up on its own anytime soon. Please God, please.

And if I feel very brave, we might stick our heads back inside the Special Care Baby Unit with some of Harry’s less-adorable premature baby clothes. Perhaps I won’t hyperventilate this time. I might just puke in the corridor instead.

So, hospital with child tomorrow. And on Thursday, I am off to the Gift Fair in Birmingham for the day with my Mum; I will come home with acute Visa wrist and every single Christmas present purchased. Oh yes. It will be so!

John has been booked for this daytime parenting duty for several months; he initially readily agreed, in the sure knowledge that he could palm Harry off onto his mother for half the day – as per usual. However, his mother is in Kentucky visiting his twin brother, so this will be Hubby’s first ever day of solo parenting. First ever. Harry is 15+ months old. I have overheard John making elaborate arrangements to ensure that he will not be left alone to entertain Hellboy: they are lunching at Harry’s godfather’s and they are also going to visit Hubby’s sister. I’m not quite sure who to feel sorry for.

Of course, that is all assuming they make their morning rounds of the farm without incident; it went slightly Pete Tong for Hubby this morning. It’s bad enough that you have to make a highly reluctant rescue request to the wife to pull you out of a hole with a tractor (A visible hole! That you knew was there! That you tipped straight into! Oops!) – but she brings the camcorder as well!

More bluster and recriminations on You Tube.

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