Emergency, emergency: I am confined to a three metre radius for the next week or so and need things to do that only require the use of one hand, or preferably none.
Henricus Rex – my entirely beloved, ofttimes smelly, but not nearly fat enough baby – once again bombed the weighing test at the clinic yesterday afternoon. Well, not bombed. He was heavier. We were jolly pleased with it, actually, and gave each other high fives – or at least a high five from my end, although he may just have been trying to hide his face from his public nakedness. But according to the special chart of knowledge, it seems that my attempts to gradually wean him off formula milk weren’t gradual enough.
No one ever tells you about the guilt that sideswipes you when you’re not feeding your baby enough. It is deep and instinctive. You can be as logical or pragmatic or easygoing as you like – most of the time, I’m not massively bothered what he’s eating or where he’s sleeping, so long as he’s doing plenty of both and is happy about it – but every now and again, it sneaks up on you from behind, choking your lungs with Eau de Failure. There’s no need to tell me that it’s ok to feed him formula. I know it’s ok. But I don’t always feel that it’s ok, and that, I can tell you, is properly rubbish.
I’m getting pretty tired of these weighing clinics, incidentally – the dramatic look on the health visitor’s face as she sits you down to tell you that he’s wobbled off his percentile line again – and wish I had a set of scales to weigh him myself. We had a go on the kitchen scales once, but it was too cold on his little bottom and not at all baby-shaped, and he wobbled right off again after marking his territory in the usual fashion.
The end result of all this is that if I’m serious about getting him off the formula – and oh, my bank balance and shrivelled washing-up hands are ever so serious about it – then I need to sit still for a week and feed him every time he squeaks. Turns out he squeaks a lot. I’ve spent just one afternoon so far suffering bed sores and boredom, and need something better to distract me than cheffing Facebook.
Suggested box sets I should rent? Any book recommendations? One-handed card tricks? Please send them – Henry is delicious to look at, but he may not be fifty-six hours’ worth of delicious, and I’m not keen to test it.