H is for Hip (Hip Hurray)

Here is my little man, at hospital, having his hip checked. His hip - hip hip hurray! - is fine, like Tara's, and different from mine. Operations, manifold and not very pleasant, to cut through his thighbone and adjust the positioning of the bone in the hip socket? Not for him, nor for Tara. It is a relief. For this generation (so far)*, it looks like I've kept my bad genes to myself.


Dear Tara and Leo (and any future siblings)*:

The friendly docor lady has asked me to pass this message on: Please make sure to have your own children and your children's children (etc etc) scanned for hip placement. It is not done automatically for every new baby in the UK (at present, but who expects the NHS's financial situation to improve?!), and you have been asked to use the excuse of your mother's and you maternal grandmother's bad genes and hips (respectively your children's grandma's and great grandma's respectively) to use up NHS resources. We're talking about my grandchildren (your children) and my great grand children (your grandchildren) at least, all of whom I am hoping to meet (although this is no invitation to have children the Ramsgate way at 14!!!), and all of which will undoubtedly be as precious as you two (or more) are, so please be good and listen.
There. I've officially recorded the message. In writing - it's a bit much to take on board when you're 6 weeks old.

With love (and apologies for poor genes, not that they really are my fault),
Mama

* No no, I'm not pregnant. And will not be again, if Jose has it his way. I'm just saying, in case. ("Jose's way" is not the only way there is, is it.)