1.  Bananas in Pyjamas

2.  Third Time Lucky

3.  The Last Breastfeed

Last night I stuck my hand in my pyjama drawer and found a designer pair from the BC days.  Cream.  Cotton/microfibre mix. Soft.  Lace at wrists and ankles.  This morning I sat in my glam nightwear propped up on pillows with Son 1 aged 4 and Son 2 aged 13m reading baby books.   Son 1 went to the loo, Son 2, who’d kicked off his pyjama bottoms, crawled after him.  I sipped my coffee. This is great, I thought.  I can’t believe I haven’t worn these lovely pyjamas for more than four years.  Son 1 called from the bathroom: “Son 2’s done a poo!”  And then: “And it’s all down his leg!” Son 2 crawled back into the bedroom, his nappy hanging off, leaving a great turd on the floor.  I picked him up and took him to the changing mat. He thrust his hands down to his willy and coated them.  I held him upright, him crying indignantly, his legs pedalling furiously in the air, and called to The Man. “I need help here.”  “I’m clearing this up. ” “I need help.” “In a minute.”  At last, The Man finished with the floor problem.  By which time Son 2 had pedalled squashy brown flecks onto my lace, my buttons, my sleeves, my shoulder and my stomach. I looked like I’d been shot by a paint gun filled with poo.  All over my beautiful, beautiful pyjamas.     

I made another appointment for Son 1 at the doctor’s, The Man took him up.  Son 1 has an ear infection and needs antibiotics.  Earache. Moaning about his ear.  Sensitive to touch. And waking screaming and feverish, night after night.  This is of course a positive blog.  But.  I believed the doctor who looked in his ears on Tuesday and said there was nothing wrong.  And, having heaved him all the way up there yesterday, I would have liked the Duty Doctor to ring back, as promised.   Son 1 wasn’t well enough to go to his friend’s party.  Looking on the bright side, we have now established that he only hollers at night when there is indeed something wrong.

I fed Son 2 for the last time tonight.  I’ve reduced the lengths of the feeds; I’m offering him milk from his cup.  I couldn’t really see him feeding in the gloom, and wondered vaguely when I last watched him.  Guilt - I know he still loves it, and he’s finally settled down to find the last feed of the day comforting.  Dread - really not looking forward to tomorrow night.  I hope it’s not hard for him.  Regret - bye bye babyhood.  Grief - no more little babies for me.   Pride - I did it, even though it was very, very hard. And I know in a week’s time we will both be fine.    Relief, maybe. I’ve picked a day, and I’m sticking with it.