The doctor escorted us into his room (Joe trotting in ahead, Timmy inconsolable and wriggling in Ray's arms (think Timmy has a better memory...)), smiling as usual, and nothing seemed amiss.
It was only when he was preparing the boys' injections that I realised the little finger of his left hand was sticking out at a funny angle and wrapped in an enormous, cartoon-like, blood soaked bandage... No exaggeration, there must have been half a cup of blood on this huge dressing, which had clearly been hastily self-administered...
We did ask about the finger, and he said "I fell" but seemed not to want to discuss it further.
He dutifully wrapped it a couple more times to soak up any stray blood before taking us to the examination room and injecting first one then the other twin. Which makes it sound simple. Until you factor in:
1. Doctor has a broken finger (or perhaps severed/both)
2. Boys are basically writhing balls of muscle.
3. Boys are, let's say, "reluctant" to be injected.
4. Doctor has to hold each boy's leg with injured hand, as mummy holds top half, Ray holds on to other boy.
Joe, being the more wriggly of the two, jerked his leg against severed finger (which clearly under the bandage was now only attached by a sliver of skin and a splinter of bone) and the doc winced.
Now, we're pretty lucky with our doctor. He's jolly. He jokes. He joked about Ray's stroke, he joked when I told him we were told we were infertile but I was pregnant (in fact he roared with laughter), he sits the boys on his lap when he writes prescriptions.
The poor man was still trying to be jovial, but every now and then a shiver of pain would cross his face and he'd go grey. I was worried that he was going to pass out at one stage. I felt guilty because he'd probably looked at his appointments for today and thought "ahh, just a few simple appointments" not realising he'd have to one handed wrestle with two young boys.
I just hope when we see him next he doesn't have a missing digit...
The twins, who are approaching their second birthday next month are growing and changing in all sorts of ways. Mostly delightful ways.
But they've started to fight each other. Dummies will be snatched from lips, bodies will be pushed from tiny armchairs, cars ripped from hands, with yelling and screaming to match!
Now the twins individually are forces to be reckoned with. To put it bluntly, they're bloody strong - when they both decide they want something, there is extra fuel in their fire... And, of course, they always want what the other has got.
I was very flattered that they both decided they wanted to sit on my lap yesterday, but when they raced at me (bums at the ready) and reached me at the same time, I was knocked flying and received my first "twinjury" - an enormous grey bruise on my elbow, and a worrying hour when I thought I might have broken my arm (can you imagine!? It's bad enough with two arms, but with one, the children would definitely take over la maison!).
So now, the only small person who doesn't need refereeing on a regular basis is Evie... and it's probably only a matter of time before I catch her giving Lily a sneaky kick in the shins...
Think of me this evening: battered and bruised and, whilst not covered in bloodied bandages, feeling it's only a matter of time. Yes, think of me, dear reader, and shed a tear for the ragged remains of the woman you once knew... Pitiful...
Anyone want to make me a suit of armour? I don't fancy another trip to the doctor just yet...
Evie looking ready to join in...
Me, exhausted and covered in babies...
See, not always fighting...!