This time last week saw Little Mister and I head out for his six-week check. I say it was his appointment. It was actually for both of us but he was by far the star attraction.
Everything went well, thankfully. He was alert and interested throughout, probably because he must have been getting peckish, and passed all the little tests with flying colours. And he didn’t disgrace himself by weeing or worse on our lovely family doctor, which is always a relief!
As we already knew, he’s a big, tall boy. He now weighs almost 13lb, putting him on the 91st percentile for weight, and is 63cm long, which is the 98th percentile for height. When the doctor laid him across the bed, as she did two years ago with Little Miss, his feet poked off the edge!
But while the appointment itself was fine the half hour leading up to it was anything but. Just as Little Miss’s six-week check had also turned into a bit of a farce when I realised I’d locked myself out of the house. A realisation that was swiftly followed by the dreaded noise from the pram that told me she’d just produced an epic nappy!
I’d tried so hard to ensure we got out on time last week and that Little Mister wouldn’t arrive at the surgery late or hungry. I had the changing bag all restocked and packed, the all-important Red Book safely stashed, the buggy up and everything by the door ready to go hours in advance of our departure.
Our appointment letter had stressed that baby should be fed beforehand so he’d be content for the examination. Little Mister clearly didn’t read, or even overhear Mummy reading, the letter. Sticking to his own, still somewhat unpredictable schedule, he decided to sleep instead. Luckily Mummy was on hand to rouse him in time to feed.
But he had other plans. What could have been a quick nappy change turned into our worst mess yet… He managed to wee in his face. Yet again. Clearly I’m doing something wrong here! And not just his face but over the edge of the change mat onto the carpet. Then seconds later an arc of yellow poo shot out and over the edge of the other end of the changing mat.
Half a pack of wet wipes later and Little Mister and the carpet were clean again. So I got him dressed in a nice new sleep suit and sat down to try and give him at least half his feed to keep him going.
But instead of seeming grateful for my efforts, Little Mister fussed around at my boob for five minutes before I sat him up and he threw up down the the arm of his fresh, previously clean, outfit. So we started again.
Luckily we live just across the road from our local surgery and we somehow managed to make it to the appointment only five minutes late. But the moral of this story seems to be that you cannot make a young baby follow any kind of schedule other than their own!