So Freddie might have chicken pox, and so could Henry, but they might not. Thank you doctor for making that clear.
Freddie (seemingly suffering more from the mysterious ailment) has been indulged with baby biscotti (that's a new one), rattles, fluffy rattles, chewy rattles and the odd adoring glance and song - still belts out a squeal that would have the most savage of Alsatians sprinting tail betwixt the legs. Screaming, gurning and wailing that is, until I detour to our local supermarket...
Once I had ticked off the free coffee, loaf of bread and passed the summer BBQ promo with my toddler yelling 'daddy beer' at the top of his lungs, I fling an unsuspecting bag of spinach in the bottom of the buggy .. Between Freddie's legs.
A bag of spinach which became almost impossible to wrestle for when at those wonderfully technical, impossibly slow, 'self' check-outs (I worked out that I average 2.5 people per shop and 4 'please wait for an assistant' prompts from the terribly proper automated voice). People are staring, wondering how it is possible for such an insipid squeal to come from such a beautiful (yes, yes, I know) little baby.
Post payment, flung back into the bottom of the chariot of fun - this bag of spinach is the gem that FINALLY kept my (usually adorable) incredibly grotty little boy - SILENT, silent aside from the content rustle as he tugged and chewed and batted the bag of iron rich greens for an entire 20 minutes.
Popeye was definitely onto something.