Rob has been away in Scotland with work this week and so my mum came to stay with us. As I have previously mentioned this is one of my favourite things ever, ever, ever. I don't think I changed one nappy all week long, I even managed a nap on Thursday morning and when on Monday morning Eli decided to wake up at the disgustingly unacceptable time of 6:30am which to me is still very much night time (I'm truly spoiled because I feel hard done to if my kids ever wake up before 8am) she dealt with him and sent me back to bed for two more lovely hours. Did I want her to ever leave? Absolutely not!
While my mum was here we took a trip to the local(ish!) farm with some friends and the kids had a marvelous time. You'll see from the pictures a broken appendage isn't interfering with Thomas and his lifestyle whatsoever.
On Tuesday we had to go to the hospital to see the orthopaedic doctor for a check-up. The problem (apart from it being crappily inefficient) with free health care like we have here in the UK is that they totally judge you on appearance. I'll give you an example, me turning up without Rob with two children who don't look alike (I was once asked in Burger King if they had different fathers due to the lack of brotherly resemblance, now I obviously avoid Burger King) would get me pigeon holed as the following.......a single promiscuous mother. Now I have nothing against single promiscuous mothers I just would prefer not to be labelled as such.
So Tuesday came and we had plans to go to the farm so I made sure to shower and fully apply my make up and actually style my hair so that I could give the kids a good old clean with baby wipes (how did people survive before the invention of baby wipes?) and arrive at the hospital from the farm a perfect picture of wholesome family life.
But things don't always go to plan do they? Somehow Thomas got totally filthy and cut his leg open, then getting home took longer than I'd anticipated so we were running late for our appointment. I pulled onto the drive got him a clean T shirt and a wet cloth to wipe off the dry blood from his leg. By this time of course he was completely comatose not to mention incredibly sweaty. I woke him up at the hospital and changed his top only to realise the clean T shirt I picked up didn't match his shorts at all. I thought for some reason he had blue shorts on but they were brown (yes, my brain is damaged). The T shirt totally clashed with the brown shorts. There was my three year old wearing uncoordinated clothes, with wet sweaty hair and a broken arm, but he was at least clean. Well, apart from half of the farm that was embedded under his fingernails. I had to swallow my pride and go in regardless.
We were waiting to be called in to see the doctor when my mum tells me she has to make a phone call and she'd take Eli with her but could I hold her newspaper? I agreed grudgingly. My mum's newspaper is the kind that has very little if any news, mostly deeply salacious gossip and even a topless beauty on page 3. Hardly the perfect picture of wholesome family life that I was hoping to exude. Obviously we got called in while I was in possession of this newspaper. Between that and Thomas' appearance I am pretty sure we secured the tag of total white trash. I may as well have not showered or done my hair after all.
But on a more positive note his arm is healing excellently and he gets to have the plaster removed two whole weeks early, roll on next Tuesday. When obviously we'll all be immaculately groomed and I am making Rob come so the doctor is fully aware that he at least has a father.