Oh Hai!

Thalia, H, Pob, May, H, Helen, Nick, NoraMs Prufrock, The Dude, P, and all 3 Hairy-Scaries. All in one room.

It rocked. Now, aren’t you just a wee bit jealous you weren’t there?

Pob adopted a stunningly beatific attitude to the noisy influx of visiting Bigs and Smalls, sharing her wonderful toys without a murmur of protest or righteous indignation, bestowing enchanting smiles on all. Sadly, Pob’s exquisitely nice manners did not appear to rub off on Harry, and his demeanour was distinctly less polite. The heart-melting appeal and good nature of the twins was completely lost on him; poor Nick’s tentatively-reaching-to-join-in hand was unceremoniously and repeatedly shoved away from the musical toy that Harry had triumphantly installed himself in front of, and I feared for Nora’s eyeballs on more than one occasion. I also spotted the little perisher doing the odd bit of surreptitious sideways bum-pushing when he thought no-one was looking.

As both a daughter and wife of a twin, I felt Harry was storing up heap big trouble for himself here: in 6 months time I reckon the twins will have honed A) their sibling loyalty, B) ganging up effective teamwork and C) shoving. Next time we all meet up (Oh pleeeease let there be a next time) Harry had better hope they don’t remember him. P was thankfully too big for him to attempt to pick on, but unfortunately also a tad too old for me to pick up and munch. I managed to inveigle her into sitting by me for a read of The Hungry Caterpillar instead; forkfuls of my slice of cheesecake were requested with absolutely the most beauteous manners and charm. I had previously heard the odd maternal bloggy mutter re: tantrums, but me? I take as I find. I’d have swopped, no problemo!

The gossip did, admittedly, keep getting sidetracked by the various activities of the collected ankle biters, and Nick, Nora and Harry were all carted away home before meltdowns could turn critical. I travelled home thinking a long succession of ‘Bugger, I never asked about…’ thoughts. Mind you, my effervescently good mood must have rubbed off on Hubby, because he actually agreed on the drive home that we could go away on holiday for a few days. Cue: much shock, gasping, etc.

We have only had one attempt at a holiday with Harry. When we got as far as Bath’s Royal United Hospital Children’s ward, I finally listened to my water and came home. The holiday before that  (and do click through if you are amused by photos of ancient caravans and gormless spaniels) wasn’t much better. The holiday before that… I can’t quite remember, it’s that long ago. It will undoubtedly have involved a caravan, though, and possibly… Dartmoor? I think?

I was all keen to up and go this week, just in case he changed his mind, but Mum has been carted off to the Canaries for a week’s recuperation and I am on fish-feeding and bird-feeding duties. So, next Monday, we are going to spend 4 nights in Wales. If it turns out to be bloody awful, at least it’ll be a change of scene. They have a creche and babysitters, both of which I fully intend to avail ourselves of. I will also be taking fizzy wine, although Hubby always moans plaintively that I am useless with alcohol and invariably go overboard by having a second glass, rendering myself far too ill to actually have sex with. Admittedly, he does have a point. An unsatisfied one, generally.

Also, Harry has his hearing test tomorrow. I am anticipating this with keen interest, as I am eager to see precisely how the audiologists plan to make him wear earphones. If they persist in forcing this issue against his wishes, they may lose a finger. I have also rung the Speech & Language department today and enquired when Harry’s assessment is to be. If it turns out to be more than a month I will arrange a private one instead, as he is 18 months old next week and still not speaking.

We are having good days and bad with his wobbly walk at present; he now totters round in lovely spinning twirls when he hears music, and can stamp his little size 3 feet quickly on the spot. He was on his steadiest behaviour on Bloggy Saturday with barely a fall all day, but reduced me to tears of sad frustration earlier today when he fell down 8 times between the door of the children’s centre and the car. The mums with whom we departed were all strapping their 12 – 18 month-ers into car seats and watching us with sympathy before we were even half-way across the mirror-smooth tarmac.

Some days, his mobility problems are glaring. Some days, they are simply not very apparent. Guess which sort of day he’ll have when he next sees his Paediatrician?

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