It all started when Bubba got blasted by a big bad blockup. Top end. Stuffiest of all stuffy noses, the poor boy was snuffling and squidging around so long a couple nights ago we went up to right things and found ourselves with a very warm headed unhappy little man. We, the old folks downstairs, charging up to fix our baby. Our boy's not well. We behaved like parents in an urgent situation and that, to me, was a very strange experience.
Of course we've been behaving like parents for eight months now but it's a bit like getting that first car / credit card / apartment / house / bottle of Jack Daniels. You think to yourself 'hey I'm an adult now, this is not kid stuff.' But when the stuff that is not kid stuff IS kid stuff, well, that is when you have truly arrived, baby.
So bubbo snuffaluffagus was unwell and we did our best to fix him. We seem to have done a pretty miserable job of it, which I discovered today, as two minutes post-breakfast, half the contents of said breakfast were soaking into the carpeting like a Rorschach blot and snuffly boy was screaming blue Jesus.
The mommy antenna went up full height and I admit the urge to clean up the puddle first was a bit strong. But no, baby first. He's not only unwell, he's a bit freaked out at that new sensation and I have to find a way to fix it. How's about a wiped face, a kiss on the too-hot-for-my-liking forehead, fresh nappy and a new top. Check. Now let's get him resting a bit on the sofa. Carefully drape a blanket under him in case the rest of breakfast comes to the party. Cover him up with another blanket. Finally open up that Calpol that's been staring me down for eight months and spoon a bit in him. Good, good. I'm mommy-ing. I'm fixing the ick.
He conks out. I feel triumphant. Until he wakes up after a brief nap and I go to cuddle him by putting him on my shoulder. A gurking sound pierces my eardrum like a chisel and as I whizz him around, there we now officially have an empty stomach and more Rorschach on the other side of the floor. I'm not sure if it looked like an octopus, a racecar or three blooming coins in a fountain but it plain as day looked like a fresh puddle of puke I was going to need to mop up. He goes back to the sofa and I refill that bowl of water.
Scrub scrub. I'm mommying again. He is quietly watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and sucking on a muslin cloth. I am wondering how in the hell I'll get some fluids in him if it keeps coming back up. How do I comfort him if he's not comfy cuddling in the newborn hold and the shoulder plank empties his guts?
I check him again and he's slowly becoming not so grey faced, forehead a bit cooler. Thank you Calpol. Having consulted Doctor Google again I see he could very well be quite perky even though he's got an obvious tummy bug and it's only if he's seriously out of sorts that it's time to panic. And lo and behold he's seeming to bore and crabbing to get on the floor again. Five minutes after I dump the bowl in the sink, I look down and he's rolled to that same tummy that just returned breakfast and I'm thinking first: 'dear lord, please don't puke on your playmat', and second: 'you sure do bounce back quick. Tough as old boots'. He's clearly on the fritz and there he is going roly poly. Pride.
Yet they say WOMEN are confusing.
He is now full of a half bottle of milk and a couple crumbs of rice cake and napping again, the sleepiness the only indication at the moment that he's off piste. I think he's ok for now but I may just fill that bowl again to be on the safe side.
The real shame of it all? Unlike a hangover, you can't cure baby sick with bacon.
In other news, this is officially the last day of my maternity leave. Nine months gone and it's time to enter a new phase of life and get back to work - only part time til year's end, thank god. I would sink like a boulder if I dived straight in. Baby steps. The adult kind.
Our childminder has been selected. We are getting close to the first full day with her and I'm growing new greys by the minute just thinking about it. I am feeling melancholy but more than relieved that compressed working hours are on the horizon and Rukai and I will have one weekday together to keep his development on track. We are on such a roll and seeing that slow - worse, cease - would break me like Uncle Pecos' old guitar string. Crambone.
To be at this point after an eight months which started in the wilderness, smothered with such worry and concern, now feels a bit like a quiet miracle.
Rukai is coming on still with no issues, firmly at the tail end of normal where milestones are concerned. Surrounded by about a dozen other kids the other day at baby singsong I saw that he isn't doing anything any differently than they are. He may be a bit on the late end but by god he's doing it.
He's now rolling over regularly and with ease both ways. He's grabbing and trying to shake the very color off his toys. He babbled an accidental mama yesterday which set me alight and raised a flock of butterflies in my own belly. He is so strong and rambunctious, so tenacious and stubborn. So much a perfect combination of me and his Daddy it is just untrue.
So today I have stuffed my worry in a cab to Heathrow, checked it in on a flight to Don'tLetTheDoorHitYa and sent it packing. It may find its way back but in the meantime we three are going somewhere much sunnier. I'll send a postcard.