Me: So, do you think Henry might enjoy riding this wooden rabbit?
Mum: I don’t know. Shall we see?
He did not.
Otherwise, though, Henry’s first exposure to Proper Culture at Basildon Park this afternoon went swimmingly. Pushchairs weren’t allowed in the mansion itself, but he slept quite happily in my arms during the tour, accepting all the old-lady cooing that came his way with becoming modesty. (After a couple of hours, my biceps put in a request for me to buy a baby sling, sharpish.)
And he got most excited about our cream tea (technically a cream hot chocolate). Or maybe that was just me.
The only tricky part was when we returned to the car park halfway through to change and feed him, and a nappy explosion of nuclear proportions occurred mid-operation on the back seat of the car. Which was parked on a slope. I tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried to catch a river of foul-smelling mustard poop tumbling down a changing mat into an already full nappy. It just kept coming.
Good times. He’s only juuuuust managed to stop laughing long enough to fall asleep (it’s 3.46am, dudes).
PS: Thank you, thank you for all the advice and reassurance on baby sleeping. Next week, when my lovely mother goes home and we’re managing by ourselves, a Strict and Immovable Bedtime Routine will be implemented. Probably. We’ll see. (Did I mention it’s 3.50am? I’d like that to stop.)