T has been to the doc. The husband and I figured that, sadly, his sudden penchant for sleeping probably wasn't due to our fantastic parenting skills or some sort of miracle, but that he obviously wasn't 100%. Granted, we had been enjoying the unbroken nights until we figured this out. Yesterday he slept twelve and a half hours overnight and had three daytime naps, the longest of which was three hours! I almost didn't want to take him to be checked out.
Once he'd had his temperature taken, chest listened to and ears looked in, the good doctor diagnosed Not-Quite-Himself-itis, probably viral, but sent us away with a bottle of lurid yellow Amoxycillin, just in case. It must be bad because, despite his massive pride at finally getting the hang of this walking lark a couple of weeks ago, T has reverted to crawling again, refusing even to bear weight on his legs, and holding his hands out to be carried.
Fingers crossed we see an improvement quickly, although his illness probably also explains why our Christmas tree remains standing. A well boy would have pulled it down by now. Wouldn't he?
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