More Shelves, Please, I'm Winning

I seem to be a little bit preoccupied by my eldest child at the moment.  I do have other children, I remember, but lots seems to be revolving around Gertie. This is the fifth post in a row in which she is the main event.

I will find other subject matter, but just one last little thing.  She does Irish dancing.  Mostly because this was a thing that I had to do when I was little.  She was at the CAID British Open Championships in Farnham in Surrey a couple of weekends ago where she won her light jig and came third in the championship overall, which generated a sizeable piece of silverware.

I did a reasonable job of hiding the remnants of Scissorgate:

Her comment? "Mummy, I know that you've only just decorated my room, but I think I'm going to need another shelf."

Currently reading: The Testament of Mary by Colm Toibin

Over the Moon (But No Cows Jumping)

For a long time now Eddy hasn't been growing very well.  He was a big baby at birth (9lb 10oz) but at the age of about seven weeks his growth seemed to tail off.  I wasn't too worried.  He had begun to sleep through the night (not fair, I know, but Gilby took over two years to perform this feat, so I feel like I've done my time).  The health-visitor was not impressed and suggested that I wake Eddy up to feed him in the night.  "But he sleeps through!  Why would you want to wake a sleeping baby?" I protested. 

"Perhaps he's too weak to wake himself up?" she suggested.

I nearly exploded with indignation.  Eddy, of the three, is by far my happiest, smiliest, most contented baby.  There couldn't possibly be anything wrong with him.

Aged 12 weeks

By about ten weeks, the health professionals were suggesting that I give him formula.  "But I have plenty of milk! He feeds very well. Isn't it good to breastfeed your baby?  It worked for the other two..."

Of course, I knew better, and ignored this advice until it was time to return to work and I needed to give Eddy formula.  As he began weaning he displayed a very healthy appetite, and never rejected a single food, often demanding 'seconds' right from six months.  Nothing wrong there, then.  Except that he continued to show poor weight gain until he dropped off the bottom of the chart.  He also didn't seem to want to sit up.  In an effort to get as much fat as possible into his diet, I frantically grated cheese into every meal I prepared for him.

Eventually we were referred to a consultant paediatrician.  I had to concede that there was a problem.  Various tests ensued.  None of which we have had the results for as yet.  Suddenly it all got a little bit scary. 

The consultant suggested that we eliminate dairy products entirely from Eddy's diet for 6-8 weeks, in spite of establishing that he never seemed uncomfortable after meal times, or displayed any of the classic symptoms of having a cow's milk allergy.  So we have a prescription formula free from cow's milk, and all dairy has gone from his diet.  No more manic cheese-grating.

Three weeks in and Eddy has jumped a percentile on the weight charts.  When I say 'jumped a percentile' what I actually mean is that he now registers somewhere on the chart instead of hovering below it in the blank space of nothingness.  He has also, aged eight months, learned how to sit unaided. 

Could it really be as simple as that?  We won't know for sure for a little while longer, but, fingers crossed!

No Smiles

My daughter told me that this week that she couldn't be loved very much because her name didn't have a smile in it! I asked her what on earth she meant. She explained that when you said Mumm-y or Daddy-y or Gilb-y or Edd-y you had to make the shape of a smile with your mouth. When you said Gertrude you didn't. Simple. No one loved her because her name doesn't smile.

I certainly wasn't smiling at Gilby's new game. He has a fascination with rubbing sun cream in - to himself and to everyone else. His favourite thing is to do it with real suncream, but alas there hasn't been a great deal of opportunity over the last few rain-soaked weeks. So he just pretends. I noticed however, that it was really feeling 'moist' as he was rubbing imaginary suncream in to my legs. I looked down to check that he hadn't, in fact, got hold of some expensive facecream from the bathroom. (Not that I own such stuff anymore, should my husband be reading this.)

But no, it was much, much worse than that. He had tried to make the suncream experience as 'real' as possible by using his own spit. Delightful. He couldn't understand why I didn't want him to 'do' my face...