I seem to have given birth to a frat boy. This child can burp like a champion. He gave the best demo to date to T's boss yesterday - imagine:
'Hey what a cute--'
'Apple doesn't fall far, eh?'
'Blame mummy's side, we don't roll like that.'
That's mah boy!
At least it comes out. Thank God it comes out. I shudder to think if those stayed in, the volume of screaming we'd be hearing.
I thought babies were supposed to have a nice 'baby smell'. Mine seems to consistently smell like spit up, what he expels from the other end, and Oilatum. At least he's not so much Crusty Booboo anymore. More of Stinky Poopoo. Poocasso. Squidge. The latter not only a moniker but also a nappy change alarm.
Grandpa's gone back home and it was safe sailing until Man Flu arrived. So much for my bank holiday weekend lie in. Only consolation is today's hair appointment in town. On my way back, I'll have to accidentally forget to change trains at Stratford and take a wrong turn into Westfield. There I will of course pick up some Man Flu armor (read: medicine) and maybe a new top for next week's girl's night. One not covered in spit up. And definitely not yellow.