We went to the doctors today. Grace has had a temperature on and off for nearly a week, is lethargic. has puffy eyes, and is generally just not herself. Poor little Giblet. So when I noticed a rash all over her chest and back – well – definitely time for the GP.
The rash is apparently a typical reaction to some kind of viral infection, although it’s not clear yet which bit of her is infected. We’ve been told to watch her carefully over the weekend and bring her back Monday if the temperature is still rearing its ugly head. If so, then we may be looking at hospital observation and blood tests etc. BIG . . FAT . . . BOOOOOOOO. I will keep you posted.
That’s not what the gist of this post is about though (cause I refuse to think about hospitals and needles until it’s absolutely necessary, thank you). This post is about a little incident in the chemist next door to the surgery where we went to collect our prescription. A quiet local chemist, with no-one in except me, Gibby, and a very polite, professional gentlemen behind the counter.
Now Grace has a thing about hats at the moment. “”AT” she cries happily pointing at the gentleman’s turban. “Mummy look, ‘AT!” The poor guy’s “AT” even gets its own little round of applause. To be honest, I feel the differences between a hat and a turban at 22 months isn’t really worth going into, so I just ignore her. Chemist gentleman and I smile awkwardly at one another and off he goes to sort out the prescription.
I sit, wait, and reply to a few texts while Little one gibbles about the shop presenting me with packet after packet of adult incontinence pants. With a firm “NO” I replace them all and continue to faff with my Blackberry.
It’s quiet for a minute or two. (When will I learn: this is always a bad sign.) Grace swaggers into view with a large pair of incontinence pants in each hand, and one pulled onto her head, somewhat askew. “AT! LOOK MUMMY! ‘AT!”
“OOoooooh , no, no,no, no, no, noooooooo baby, give to Mummy!”
And thus the chase begins . . . .
Ok, so me getting the giggles at this ridiculous scenario doesn’t help matters. It just makes her giggle too and run even faster shouting “AT, AT!” In all honesty though, it’s the happiest and most active I’ve seen her in days, so I can’t tell her off, can I? Quite why it takes sanitary products on incorrect parts of the anatomy to cheer her up, I cannot say. The mindset of the Giblet is a strange and curious thing. So when she offers me the pair she’s been clutching in her right hand with an enthusiastic “AT MUMMY?” . . . well . . . no-one’s about . . . go on then, just for a sec.
So there you have it. Mother and daughter, in a shop, snickering like idiots with incontinence pants on our heads.
And yes: of course the chemist man came back to the counter and saw us. It just wouldn’t be my blog now would it if something happened like it was supposed to. Fortunately for us, he was very understanding – especially since I then realised I’d forgotten my wallet and couldn’t pay for the aforementioned knickers. Oops. (In hind sight, I think we just baffled him into submission. Sorry nice chemist Gentleman, wherever you are.)
What a pants day. Get well soon Baby Girl xxx
(To read other incidences in which the Giblet has mortified me with embarrassment, click here!)