Bodies really don’t know what they want, sometimes. I hate this milk-making, it said. What, you want more now? And more? Whatever. Just water it down or something.
Now Henry doesn’t want it anymore, and suddenly we’re all up in arms [boobs] about the rejection. Terrible things have happened. Let’s leave it there. It sufficeth me to say: I am suffering. Did you know that cows can die if they’re not regularly milked? Suddenly my cups overflow with sympathy and other things.
On Friday evening I curled up in bed and wished heartily for cow-like death. I couldn’t even do the Silent Witness dance properly, and let me tell you, that is big news. This morning I got up, steely with determination, and stood under a scalding shower until I could get dressed. Because today was the day. The day. Of. The SWIMMING POOL.
We have been planning this for an age, ever since we discovered Henry could wriggle like a fish up and down the bath. He loves it. This scenario always ends with the bathplug being pulled out and foam on the walls, so we went in search of a bigger bath. The Coral Reef was the obvious destination. That place has a pirate ship, you guys.
I was nervous about the prospect of a swim nappy: without enough time to order one of the special keep-everything-in varieties, we picked up a pair of swimming shorts with built-in swim nappy from Mothercare, and then some Huggies swim nappies for underneath. He’s been enthusiastic in marking his territory, lately, but we hoped a double layer of containment would do the trick.
Good gravy, it was the cutest thing ever.
He gets excited enough about being naked, but being half-naked with a pair of jazzy new shorts on? He was beside himself.
And, as anticipated, he loved it. He was hilariously skittish in the baby pool, so we moved him to the shallow end in the main pool, where there were fewer babies to poke in the eye. Then on to the bubble pool, where he splashed so excitedly he swallowed half of it. Then around the lazy river on Daddy’s back. Then the jacuzzi. In which he was making a serious investigation of the water jets, and was so overcome with wonder that he pooped. In the jacuzzi. In a confined, hot-water, full-of-other-judgy-adults space.
Luckily we got him out before more than a couple of flakes escaped.
Children must leak all the time in swimming pools, right?
Afterwards we got fish and chips, because chips after swimming is surely the law.
Courtesy of the Coral Reef (Bracknell),
the Respected Mr Cod (Oxford Road),
Dr Tong’s Magnificent Antibiotics,
and Huggies Superlative Poop-Containing Pants.