Several months ago I was on that scourge that is Facebook, perusing the statuses of all those that are dear and not so dear, when I happened upon a particular status of my quite dear friend in Scotland. We'll call her 'Polly Angus' for short. Anyway, she had written something about her daughter inheriting (via hand-me-down) a pair of Bratz faux leather boots. She went on to say something along the lines of her daughter now looking like a Geordie Slapper. This made me laugh (and laugh) so very much, and I immediately fell in love with the phrase. Seriously, Geordie Slapper?? Just try and tell me that is not phenomenal. And so, because of this, I have incorporated the name/appellation/term of endearment, or whatever you want to call it, into our everyday vernacular, simply because it is fabulous.
And so, two nights ago when Emilia takes it upon herself to fall out of her bed at about 2:30 in the morning, giving her little self a nice little shiner, I have found myself in great difficulty. For starters, she has a little cut smack on her left eyebrow. (In my defense, this was all that was visible the night of 'the incident', which is why I was nearly going ballistic when the girl was wailing and wailing, and nearly waking Leo in her exertions. 'Be quiet! You will wake the baby!! If you are that hurt, maybe we should just pack up the car and take you to the hospital RIGHT NOW!' You know, that sort of desperate thing...)
But then the next morning she woke up with her entire eyelid swollen and discolored. It looked like a rather spectacular application of eyeshadow just on the one eye. And the poor girl was miserable. And her mama was miserable. And her Leo was miserable. The poor little bloke was already slated for his 6-Month-Well-Child-Appointment with the doctor that morning, which meant he got poked and prodded until the cows nearly came home -- three shots and one oral vaccine. Not to mention all the other indignities he was forced to undergo... All the while I sat -- and worried -- and fretted -- and worried some more. The little guy only weighs 14 pounds 13 ounces. That means that he is in the fifth percentile for his weight. My dad said this is alright, because if you add Emilia's 97th percentile to his 5th percentile, you end up just over 100 percent, which makes them both totally average. Anyway, I was petrified that they were going to label him 'Failure to Thrive'.
All the while Emilia was trying to hide her little head because, apparently, come hell or high water, no doctor ain't looking at nothing! She lost that battle, though. The doctor looked and said she would be alright, but maybe a bit cranky. (To say the least...)
The doctor also said poor Leo, while a bit of a Scrawny Ronny, is totally fine and completely healthy. But that he would also be a bit cranky on account of the nasties they injected into his little body. I hate vaccines. And I hate all that business in general. I tend to fall in line with Nancy Mitford's mother with her general philosophy of relying on 'the good body', and letting things work out on their own. However, when it comes down to it, how am I supposed to sleep at night knowing that the little munchkins are exposed to all sorts of heebie jeebies that I cannot control? Hmmmm, I ask you? How am I? So, because of that, they are both loaded to the gills with whatever vaccines they have available, and I am spending the rest of my time worrying about scrawniness and a tendency to look a bit like a Geordie Slapper.
Now, if we could only figure what to do with a girl who has refused to go to bed at night unless mama or dada lays down with her for hour on end, then we'd be in business. She keeps claiming that she is 'having a hard time'. Alas, she is right, poor thing. We are all having a hard time. I suppose this is why I have been spending so much time perusing that damned and blasted early-access-ness of the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale. Stupid Nordstrom. Who else could convince me that while wiping up piles of spit-up and shitty arses, I may actually need that jacket that looks just like something Coco Chanel would have designed herself. (Yes, I have refrained from that so far, but not so much from their running accoutrements, face creams, toddler wellies, Little Giraffe blankets, and so on... I know, I know.) And now Garnet Hill has added themselves to the mix with their ruinous sale. Oi. What is one to do? Strong liquor? Maybe.
In the meantime, the eye, while not looking much better, doesn't seem to bother the girl much (unless she sees it in the mirror), and little Leo got his first jar of peas tonight. I don't think he is a particular fan, but there is no pleasing everyone. Maybe he will fare better with carrots? Or butternut squash? We'll see.
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