Today was Q’s 9-month anniversary and she decided to celebrate by putting her arms in the air and saying ‘up’.
Not once, not twice, but three times as a request to be picked up.
She is a genius.
Or she would be if she could remember she’d done it.
No amount of cajoling, monkey-ing or bribing has prompted her to say it again.
I celebrated by rejoicing in my mother-in-law.
Odd, you might say, as women often have fractious relationships with the mother they inherit.
But who could be fractious with a woman who bakes a triple batch of choc-chip cookies, puts them in a box and sends them to you across the universe.
I am not kidding. That is the kind of mother-in-law I have.
Holding to the theory that broken cookies have had a calorie leak, and not wanting the cookie jar to look untidy with any misshapen pieces, I dutifully munched my way through about 17 of those babies, all of them poor and injured, having suffered a couple of fractures on their long flight.
Gregory didn’t eat any because he has been struck down with the vomit bug.
I tell you, euthanasia is looking like his best option these days.
How much can a
man wife take?
I don’t know why I ever thought I’d make a good doctor.
My bedside manner is dreadful.
Then again, Gregory’s bedside is dreadful so perhaps it’s fair.
Miss Q knocked her lip over the weekend (because she is gung-ho and determined to stand and walk) and caused it to bleed.
Instantly I snatched her out of Gregory’s arms and sang our special ‘I love you’ song till she calmed.
Poor G. He’s lucky if I pass him a bucket.
Wife love. Mother love.
Jeez, are they ever different.