Four weeks old

So at the time of writing he's actually five weeks old - but I just haven't had a spare five minutes in the past week. It's been a tough one. There has been a lot of crying! Mr Jones went away and despite the very welcome and generous help of my sister it was hard work without his support - especially at night. The grunting and groaning continues and I've just decided that it's easier to let the little monkey sleep with me for that portion of the night than to make us all suffer. I'm still trying to settle him in his own bed just in the vain hope that one day he might stay there, like he does for all his other sleeps - fingers crossed.

By Wednesday I was a bit of an emotional wreck. The health visitor came. Master Jones now weighs in at 10lb 12oz - porker! When she asked how I was I fought back the tears and failed. She said lots of reassuring things and then asked - "have you ever had depression?" Blimey - I didn't think I was that bad - it was just a "moment".

Then she proceeded to put the wind well and truly up me by saying that I needed to take Rufus to the hospital for a jaundice test because he still looks a bit yellowy. (I bit my tongue and stopped myself from saying that I had pointed that out on the last visit and she'd told me he was fine!). Then she proceeded to tell me that if he was still jaundiced after he was six weeks old he'd have to have a liver transplant. Not news you want to hear when you've had two hours sleep and have a baby who has what appears to be chronic wind and keeps spitting gripe water at you.

So on Friday Mr Jones and I took Rufus to Peterborough Hospital (oh so grim). We were handed a bottle and told to "collect some urine"

"er - how?"

"You just have to hold the bottle on his willy and wait until he pees"

"Riiiight! How long is that going to take?"

"It depends - some people are here for four hours"(!)

So in the waiting room we sit. Poor Rufus is naked from the waist down on a changing mat - his nethers on display to anyone who wants to look - while Mr Jones holds the bottle on his willy and we both make water noises, blow on him and generally will him to pee.

After 30 minutes I decide that perhaps I need to put something in to get something out. But of course we need to keep the bottle on his willy to ensure we don't miss any wee that might appear. This means that I can't pick him up and feed him as usual. So I end up leaning over him while he lies on the mat - in the waiting room(!) - and dangle my boob into his mouth so that he can eat. Not the most comfortable of feeding positions nor the most glamorous. (I add this one to the list of "things I never thought I'd do" along with going to the loo in the middle of the night while hoiding my baby, and singing nursery rhymes in the street). Thankfully no one comes into the waiting room to witness this spectacle.

In the end the nurses decide to scare the pee out of him by doing his blood tests. They viciously extract blood from his little hands and he screams until his face is a horrid shade of puce. I try hard not to get angry with them for faffing about (why is there always a "I haven't done many of these before" person around when you just want the most skilled professional to get the job done without causing your baby undue trauma??!!). The fear brings forth the wee and we are free to go - until next Wednesday when we go back for the results. Fingers crossed all will be well and he won't need treatment.


In happier news he's started to smile at us properly - and he looks gorgeous - but unfortunately he doesn't smile at the camera. And today he is wearing his first little boy outift and he looks very cute - I'm sure you'll agree. And finally Boots Gripe Mixture appears to be a winner - he takes it off the spoon with out spitting it at me or choking and it has produced some very impressive burps - hurrah.