My son doesn't look in the least bit like me. From the doctor who delivered him to absolute strangers who see us three together, the comment is always about how he is a miniature of his father. My best friend commented shortly after his third month, 'so what exactly did you do that there isn't an ounce of you this is cherub?!'.
Well it's 1.20 am here in Singapore and as I am sat writing this I am perched at the corner of the bed having just administered some very strong medication to a little boy with very very high fever.
I was going to write about the Diwali that my brother and I took it in turns to go into hospital for unexplained fevers and turn out mothers hair grey. I was scrolling through the blog to find the memory box number so the post would have an accurate title. And I found this:
I'm getting old. Don't even remember what I've blogged about.
This time his parents, cousin, aunt and uncle will pause in our celebrations till he is well enough to enjoy the occasion. Here, on choti Diwali, it turns out my son is more like me than I imagined. He is burning up with an unexplained fever and turning his mothers hair grey.