Pass the Whine

  • Harry’s ulcers are better, for a given value of ‘can eat soft foods without crying’ as ‘better’. He was given a shortbread finger yesterday by a well-meaning friend, who was startled to see it emerge after a while, half-chobbled and thoroughly blood-soaked. His gums are still bright red and his breath could knock out a troll at 10 paces.
  • This is what his cot sheet looks like after a night of dribble-diluted ulcer bleeding.


  • The Delightful Doctors Next Door returned from holiday yesterday and were promptly waylaid by me plaintively recounting the full tale of Harry’s woes. Apparently the GP told me a Big Fat Porker. I had specifically asked about paediatric ibuprofen suppositories, and she said Didn’t Exist. Apparently they do. Bah!
  • While we were animatedly discussing this, Harry reached up higher than we thought he could reach, and grabbed the tape of the horses’ electric fence.
  • He had barely recovered from the misery this occasioned him, when he toppled into a plastic crate, which flipped up and hit him in the mouth.
  • This is what my top looked like after his battered gums and front teeth had finished pouring with blood. His clothes and my face & hair caught most of it.


  • If I told you how often I have nagged John to bring up some fencing materials to toddler-proof a small patch of lawn outside the kitchen door, you would be just as bored with the topic as he evidently is. I took a risk at teatime and left Harry playing free-range on his new slide while I scuttled just inside the door to put his sausages on. He immediately wandered towards the hedge and fell into some stinging nettles.
  • I bought him a new slide last Friday night


in order to cheer him up after his illness. The first thing he did Saturday morning was fall off it and bruise his back.

  • I have not bothered to list all his thumps and bumps this week. There have been so many, I can’t remember half of them, but he is a constellation of bruises. I am so frustrated and miserable about his endless run of shitty luck that I could scream. In fact, I have.
  • John keeps telling me we have No Money, are spending more than he earns, and that my going back to work would be a Good Thing.
  • He keeps looking at new camera lenses on Ebay.
  • The speech therapist has postponed our next appointment to the middle of April. Harry is 20 months tomorrow, and still isn’t saying a single bloody word. His peers are starting to use sentences. Please don’t tell me about your son/daughter/friend’s nephew/lady down the road/Einstein who didn’t start to talk until they were 23, as Harry might just be the one who is Different.  He understands plenty, and that will have to content me for now.
  • He is still toppling over a lot. Some days he is much worse than others, but he’s a little more balanced than he was.
  • On Tuesday he bit his little playmate’s finger. Hard. She cried for 20 minutes. My mortification knew no bounds.
  • Yet he always looks…


 as if butter wouldn’t melt. 

  • He has been excessively cuddly and kissy since he has been ill. I could absolutely eat him up.


  • According to the LH peesticks, I ovulated the night before last. We have had sex. I now think this was a stupid thing to do.
  • According to my EWCM, I ovulated over a week ago, and consequently all of John’s sperm will die horribly in any event. So, no worries.
  • Have had random musings regarding a great new conception/fertility technique involving holding magnets next to chaps’ balls. If sperm could be polarised, then you could put a magnet either in your knickers or in your pocket, depending on which way you wanted them to head. Clever, no? 
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