My tiny man is now thirty seven weeks old, (or eight and a half months if you are normal and can’t calculate weeks like health visitors do). He is crawling, he eats everything in sight. I must eat at the same time as him and make sure that I finish first or face the tantrum face as I try to eat without him.
He sports a permanent bruise on his forehead from his determination to stand up using the baby gate, which once his goal is achieved, he bends his arms backwards and forwards like a frustrated monkey at the zoo, until he headbutts the gate and falls over in an annoyed mess.
His teething has reached amazonian levels of spit river pouring out of his mouth. His poor gums are not going to let those teeth break through though. Which means that bed time is a distant memory, it has been replaced by shouty time. Shouty time begins around eight in the evening (when he used to lie in his cot, sleeping, looking angelic and I would think how lucky I was to have such an amazing baby *smug mum moment) he gets his pyjamas on and the moaning begins.
Even though he eats three MASSIVE meals a day, he also wants to breastfeed as much as he did at three months old (which is pretty much constant) and now that he is mobile he can make his own way to me and angrily tug at my top/bra until a nipple is exposed. The breastfeeding demands are much louder and urgent at shouty time.
Shouty time lasts anywhere between two and twelve hours. The other night it had twenty minute nap breaks over a fourteen hour period.
I am not one to reach for drugs to shut my child up. I try all of the hippy remedies first. I am sorry to say to my tree hugging buddies that the fairy dust and wishes that they are made of do a grand total of FUCK ALL to appease my child.
This is where my lovely Calpol comes into play. There is a slight problem in that the dribble face detests it more than formula milk (which he REALLY hates as it makes him throw up every time he has it). So when I have reached the point of exhaustion where I am sure that my nipples look like mouldy raspberries and that I must call in some sort of help, I must force medicine into my child.
He screams, clamps his mouth closed, makes me feel like I am a torture master (after two nights of no sleep I found myself sobbing, holding the application syringe for squirting it into his mouth, trying to explain that he would feel better if he just let me) even though I know it is going to help him, he makes sure that I spend at least another twenty minutes searching online for another option to try made of something that he might like.
After we have both cried, half of the Calpol is now forming a sticky paste in his many chins, he suddenly cheers up as it has worked its magic.
And once more I internally find myself telling Calpol how much I love it. It is on the list with Sudocrem (which can reduce a fluorescent nappy rash to a faint pink rash in an hour) and Pampers (sorry environment but they are the greatest).
After a whole day of crying I have just wrestled my gorgeous child to the floor and forced medicine into him. Twenty minutes later he is the happiest. No more Calpol guilt for me. No more time wasting on chamomile crystals.
Calpol I bloody love you.