I realize I haven't been posting much of late. Yeah well, we've been a little bit distracted. And then there's the lack of sleep. My Bride and I occasionally remind each other that we chose to do this again on purpose, knowing full well what it would be like. Except you don't really. Something in your brain has been wired through evolutionary selection to forget how disgusting a baby is. In one changing table-event, Squirmy managed to crap, piss and vomit. Linda Blair made less mess in The Exorcist
It seems obvious to say that there are some differences between having a girl baby and a boy baby, but really, it goes beyond the plumbing apparatus. Or maybe it's just the differences between the two little people that the Critter was and Squirmy is, but friends who have stopped by to admire our latest handiwork have nodded knowingly and blamed the Y chromosone. He eats more frequently, sleeps a little bit more erratically, is constantly losing his car keys and frequently forgets to put the toilet seat down after use.
On top of that whole getting-used-to-boys thing, we're trying to navigate the American and British systems in tandem. Because, yeah, Squirmy's an American by virtue of our citizenship, but we have to cart his little monkey butt down to the Embassy at some point to prove we have scored another victory for the survival of the species. By appointment only. First available appointment is the day before Thankgiving. Until then, he's officially a citizen of Nowhere. But he's got a British National Health Service number, which entitles him to home healthcare visits, a double fistful of vaccinations and long waiting lists for any kind of interesting medical care.
I've got to admit, I'm impressed by the whole housecall thing. The midwife has already made three visits out to our house to check on things, and stick him with needles, and make sure we're still sane and things are generally kosher. Or not.
We had decided early on that we'd have Squirmy circumcised. On Day 2, I asked the first pediatrician I saw where we signed the boy up for that special little procedure. The doctor was Greek, and gave me the third degree. Why? What makes you want to circumcise? Are you sure you've thought it through?.
Hey. Don't judge me. Just tell me where to go to get the boy snipped, eh?
Turns out Dr. Turtleneck didn't know what the procedure was. He was just there to run some bloodwork. OK, fine. Except none of the mid-wives on the maternity ward knew either. And all made the same face. It was like we were asking to have the boy ritually branded in some barbaric ritual. "Um... Talk to your GP" they said.
My Bride's parents have been here the past week, and once we brought Squirmy home, we were sitting around talking about this apparent British revulsion to our strange American practices. My Bride's father then told us about how it was done in the Philippines. Where they wait until you're twelve. And then your cousins or friends walk you down to this guy in the village who does the deed for the price of a couple of cigar, and he asks you to prop up the member on this board. And since you're twelve, you get to, you know, hold it out yourself, ready for a straight razor wielded by Senor Cigar. And then there is much shouting by your cousins or friends who never wandered very far away. And then you have to waddle home on your own accord. (Note, my Bride and her mother were laughing through this whole story. I was crawling under the table in sympathetic pain).
So I went down today and made an appointment to talk to the GP about the process. And the people at the office were like "huh? Hmm. Circumcision. I've heard of that. Isn't that like Magellen sailing all the way around the world?"
I'm getting the feeling that if we're going to get this done while we're still in the UK, I'm going to have to buy a couple of cigars and find a guy with a straight razor.