It’s been a busy week of visits to hospital for Alfie.
On Tuesday I took him to have his skin prick tests at the dermatology department, which I really enjoyed. Alfie got to see his favourite nurse, and then got to eat stickle bricks out of tea cups in the waiting area while his tests developed. It was no surprise to find out that he had a reaction to hen’s eggs, although I did have to follow that up with an Awkward Question (TM) when I asked if that meant he would be ok with other types of egg. My thinking was that in the same way Alfie can tolerate goat milk far better than cow’s milk, maybe duck eggs would be easier on him than hen’s eggs. I don’t think there is a textbook answer to that one.
On Thursday Keith took him to see the dietician and Alfie had a great time dishing out a round of his new favourite pastime on the poor lady’s desk. Alfie’s new favourite game is called “I want to unpack all the drawers I can reach before opening and closing them repeatedly”. I can’t remember the last time his trouser drawer actually had a neat pile of clothes in it for more than 10 waking minutes. Anyway, the dietician was very pleased with him, as well she might be seeing as since he has come off milk and onto a proper diet he has jumped 2 (count them one, TWO) percentiles on his weight chart.
My son is officially a heifer. Well maybe not, he’s actually more of a tree frog. Every time I see him in the bath he makes me laugh because he has these teeny tiny spindly limbs, and a big round barrel belly. What makes me laugh though is that he is so proud of it: He loves staring down at it, poking it and sometimes even stroking it as if it were a baby bump. And then he hears me laugh and looks up at me with a big gurny grin on his face still clutching his bump and thinking he’s the funniest little boy in the world.
Both departments have now agreed that we are handling Alfie’s eczema/ allergies so well that he no longer needs to be under their care. Which of course is fabulous news.
To celebrate (in true Gibraltarian style) we went out to dinner. I chose the sort of pace we haven’t been to for years, and took Alfie to an oriental buffet. Yeah ok, sniff all you like, but it makes perfect sense when you have a child who is still discovering their tastebuds.
Keith and I frowned slightly when the waitress informed us that they would have to charge us £3.70 for Alfie’s meal. The same thought was flashing between us – that’s a bit steep, he might not touch a thing! – but we agreed and went up to walk the aisles of steaming trays.
Turns out that £3.70 was the best value we’ve ever had from a restaurant. At one point, Keith mused that they would be well within their rights to charge us for another adult because Alfie ate for AN HOUR AND A HALF .... SOLIDLY.
I’ll summarise it for you:
“Mmmmmm spare rib, nyom, nyom, ooooooh nuddle!! Gimme!! *stuff* nyom, water now!, *slurp* spare rib, nyom, nyom ...”
Repeat until small boy explodes, or fall asleep mid chew, whichever comes first.
At one point Alfie did actually lean his head over onto my arm and let out a huge sigh, mid chew, as if to say “mum, this is hard work, but I’ll get there”. What a little soldier, eh? Behaviour like this will make you very popular with your extended family young man.
Needless to say he slept like the dead that night.
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