Going Uphill

Have realised with a shock that we are going on holiday on Monday and the dirty washing pile closely resembles Mont not-quite Blanc. Am madly looking forward to it, despite the fact that I have finally caught Harry’s sniffle and Wales is forecast to be bitterly cold and rather snowy. But don’t you worry about us traversing those treacherous mountain passes, people, because I drive a 4×4.

Wifey: ‘FFS! You’ve been on the bloody net forever. Gerroff.’

Hubby: ‘You never know, I could be ordering your Valentine’s present.’

Wifey: ‘Oooh!’

Hubby: ‘Of course, you’ve already had your birthday present.’

Wifey: ‘I have?’

Hubby: ‘I bought a new battery for your car.’

Wifey: ‘Oh.’

Hubby: ‘I think I shall get you a new driveshaft for Valentine’s day.’

Wifey: ‘Do I need a new driveshaft?’

Hubby: … (pause)… ‘We’ll find out on the way to Wales.’

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Harry used his first sign today. He got it fairly wrong, poor lad, but I knew what he meant – ‘More!’ – and dutifully handed over another blueberry. This breakthough so soon has cheered me up a tiny bit, because I lay awake until 3.30am last night getting increasingly wound up and upset. I had a cursory attempt at Googling informing myself about various speech and language problems yesterday and realised in the process that Harry has not, in fact, ever spoken a spontaneous word, in or out of context. What he has done – twice – is perfectly echo the last sound he has heard. It seems that the two are rather separate things, and explains why he has never repeated either word – he had never learnt them to begin with.

Hubby is confident  – as usual – that All Will Be Fine Eventually, and, Mulder-like, I want to believe. I really do. But I’m a natural Scully. I’m horribly uneasy, and that’s a feeling which has been justified all too often in the past. I’m scared of the S&LT turning up Tuesday week and telling us that Harry’s babble is still formless, and light years away from speech. I want her to reassure us that he’s almost there. That he’s not struggling as much as I dread he is. That he’s on the very cusp of breaking out into some solid vocab. That I’ll be hearing ‘Wuv you, Mummy!’ by the summer.

Hell, I’d even enjoy ‘Hate you, Mummy!’ at the moment.

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