Been
a nice birthday, as it happens. Simple, pleasant, enjoyable. Felt longer than
it was, even though I’ve crammed less stuff in than I normally do.
We
went out for lunch in the end. Mathew came with us and slept through the whole
thing! We got the usual onslaught of goo-ing strangers who can’t help
themselves but look and go a bit goo-goo-ga-ga and then ask how old he is. It’s
a weird turnaround for me – I used to hate talking to people I didn’t know,
especially in out-in-the-real-world social settings, and if you’d told me a
couple of months ago that I’d be facing it on an almost daily basis, I would
have refused to become a parent and tried to find a way of plugging Philippa up
so The Little One could never appear. But it’s nice. I’m enjoying the contact
and the chance to show him off a bit. It’s not like the everyday contact that
you’re sometimes forced to deal with. I suppose it’s different because it’s not
confrontational and there’s no expectations – I don’t have to worry about
finding something to say that doesn’t offend people, as we already
automatically have a topic of discussion to build around. And I’m getting
better at it because it’s happening more and more.
It
does seem that carrying a baby around is akin to holding up a sign that says
“PLEASE COME OVER AND TALK TO US.”
Philippa
loves it too, but is finding it increasingly tiring. She’s got to take him into
work tomorrow as the ladies there have insisted on seeing him. I’ve complained
because it’s a doctor’s surgery and I’m worried about him picking up something
horrible, but I’ve been assured that Philippa’s breast milk is full of protection,
and so his immune system is effectively her immune system, so effectively he’s
not a one-month old infant, he’s a woman in her early thirties. Not sure how
that works, but the female members of my family have bullied me into believing
it’s true, so let’s go with it.
RC 20-1-19
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