– 9:44 pm

Right, I may have sold you a bit short yesterday with the whole bobblehead thing. Dr Erskine was super impressed I could sit you upright in a chair unaided. She said most babies don’t achieve this until about three months into life. So yeah, I stand corrected. I take that back. You have some neck strength.

That was the first appointment after we left the keys with Peter at the usual car park. It was a final checkup for Liza post-delivery. Ms Erskine said she’s recovering well and gave her the all-clear (after a little tête-à-tête in the side room). She’s medically sound and everything is as it should be. The good doc did advise to keep you breastfed til at least three months, quoting there’s no scientific evidence to prove benefits beyond then. I think your mother will stop thereafter.

Dr Maalouf was actually quite funny, unintentionally. He said you had “a big head” and we burst out laughing. But I think he was genuinely trying to say your head was quite big for your age, “in the upper ten percentile of babies” he said, showing us some graphs. He didn’t strike me as the humourous type.

In fact, he came across as direct and exact. His sentences were short and his instructions were lean and without fat. I for one can appreciate brevity. During your examination, he completely ignored me, solely addressing your mother. He would say things like “mum, take his clothes off, everything”, “mum, put his head here”, “mum…”

I feel like other people would take offence to that. But I didn’t. I think it’s cultural. Liza thinks he’s Lebanese. As with Africans, it’s likely they think anything baby related is the mother’s duty. The fathers may as well be absent, as long as the cheques keep coming. I’ve seen this movie a million times over so I didn’t feel insulted by the no mention in that moment of parenting.

Thinking about it, he probably has no clue what he’s doing or insinuating. My passiveness is assumed, expected and accepted. It’s all instinctive to him. However, I did ask your mother if she wanted me to take over and she declined. So there is that. She assumes the role fully.

When we got there from Duck and Rice, you weren’t even on the list to be seen. From my seat, I could tell your mother was giving them the whole “not my problem, I have a confirmation email and we’re here so make it happen”. All done through body language. She had her arms folded and stood sideways, facing me instead of them, stern, unchatty and giving yes/no responses. Feet were shuffling and the desk was giving a song and dance about the error but she visibly couldn’t care less. That’s what my eyes could see at least.

We sat down with Dr Maalouf to discuss your examination. You’d been a grownup about it as usual and only showed a glimpse of discomfort when he checked your hips. Somewhat unexpectedly, you were well above average with every metric. You had a big ol’ head, tall, and weighty.

We asked about allergies to which he said, “give him everything, the more the better”. So your mother has an open buffet to eat from. Whatever she likes. You’ll taste it all through breastmilk. When you were born, the paediatrician made a comment about your legs. He fielded my question, “his legs are fine”. Then your mother asked about the advisory food limit prescribed by Aptamil, to not exceed the 750ml of milk within 24 hours. “He’s a big boy, if he wants 800, 900ml, give it to him”. With that, you’re writing your own guidance chart.

In conclusion, you have a clean bill of health, “perfect” as he put it. “I’m very happy, congratulations mum and dad”. That was the only time he acknowledged my role. He handed over his card for questions and instantly booked us in for a follow-up in a month (to avoid any more calendar mishaps).

You’re due vaccines at two months. Your mum and I need to decide where to have them, whether locally or at Dr Maalouf’s. There’s a drive and cost implication of course. It’s free at the NHS (but there might be a waiting list). I’ll default to whatever Liza decides given she has more free time to look into these matters. She typically presents her findings and we make a joint decision. I expect no different.

Alright Spitson, see you at the next one.

PS – Spitson is one of many nicknames I’ve given you. This one is for all the spitting and vomiting. I’ve also called you Puffcheeks and Smelly for obvious reasons and Fruitloops for how girly colourful you can be at times. Your mother dislikes the latter but it’s all in good fun. I still get called gay, all the time, about as often as all the people who called you Lian Liam today. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve called you by your name more than once. Liza does it all the time. It sounds so formal and alien (to me) when she does. I prefer to be more playful.