What’s a pollywod?

Strange exchange with Rose this morning – at breakfast she suddenly asked ‘Where’s my pollywod?’. We said ‘What’s a pollywod?’. ‘A pollywod! A pollywod!’ Stupid parents fail to understand hand gestures. Rose eats some bacon to give her strength to put up with us. We ask what a pollywod is again, as we just can’t let it lie. She says she is going off to look for it. Goes upstairs. Makes moving furniture noises. Comes downstairs. We say ‘Where’s your pollywod?’ She says ‘What’s a pollywod?’. We fall on the floor and burst several ribs laughing.

We had a nice day visiting our friends in deepest Kent. Rose played with their little girl, we had roast chicken and the sun shone. Also Sylvia only had four feeds today but ate bowls and bowls of food. So my spirits are rising gently at the prospect of being liberated and burning my breastfeeding bras: nobody knows if she has had enough food and drink to keep her sleeping through the night, we will find out later. Also she is doing this cute thing when she is happy of flapping her hands up and down in front of her so the fingers collide, I think it’s an early version of clapping.


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