Moments that aren’t your proudest as a Mammy? I’ve had a few of those. My most recent being the realisation that the only possible solution to my screaming toddler, in pain, grabbing his ear at 9pm on Sunday night was to shake that bottle of Calpol (like it was a polaroid picture) to get the remaining almost 3ml out of it and praying to all and any gods out there that it would ease his pain and that it wasn’t another blasted ear infection. I wouldn’t mind, but the chemist below my doctors knows us by name and I’ve a strong feeling would nominate me as customer of the month. But, in times of need (and after closing time of any shops or chemists that would sell infant painkillers) it seems that the mountain of bottles of Calpol or Nurofen that we’ve purchased over the last two years has vanished into thin air, leaving only the dregs at the bottom of one bottle, and thankfully (mercy of all mercies) one purple syringe to get the stuff into him.
Last week, we had an appointment with a doctor who we were initially referred to for a reason that I’m sure will be the impetus for many jokes at E’s expense in years to come – the size of his head. Apparently, my tiny, too-small-for-premie-clothes baby, upon deciding to grow, put a little more effort in when it came to the size of his head than the rest of him, and many months ago, this had the public health nurse worried. From the outset it wasn’t something that had me very worried, it’s a trait of my brother’s which we laugh about (in good fun, no harm meant), but when the professionals are mentioning things like fluid on the brain and growth at a rapid state before “…but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about”, it does get the heart racing a little bit. And not just because he’s a Precious First Born with a hypochondriac Mama. I swear. Read More