Hey grown-up world, get this for a Welsh sca’boo!

In case you didn’t guess, it’s made our tiny-tot word made for saying ‘Special Care Baby Unit’ here at Royal Glamorgan Hospital, Llantrisant, near Cardiff and where my open-topped incubator is parked in the unit’s nursery so as to continue to keep a careful watch over my temperature.

Much else besides, while rising three-weeks-old and busy regaining my 58-ounce birth weight – “Only six ounces shy of our sweet Daisy-Mae tipping the scales at an equivalent weight to two of your mum’s bags of sugar,” decides my visiting Bampy Blogsbody – and so rock on Saturday when he heads back to Cressroads.

Already it’s too late to prevent mum’s dad of an ex-tabloid hack beginning to broadcast on Facebook: ‘In Wales less than 48 hours and to witness two-week-old Daisy-Mae survive crackheads, wasps and her baptism with fire, while fast asleep in her incubator at the Royal Glamorgan's Special Care Baby Unit … and then for her bampy to wonder if, on future visits, he shouldn't think to leave his eventful rabbit's foot at home in Cressroads, where ... don't ask!’

“Best, Daisy-Mae, after all you’ve slept through today – opening, but quickly closing one of your deep blue peepers at the sight of Old Bampy – he puts on hold his thoughts of rocking your incubator and marking your baby card with anything less than an upbeat mention of your Uncles Matt and Sam,” mum strokes my long fingers.

“Can be scary,” she warns.

“Like scary … scary,” perk the identical twins. Gabriel and Charlotte who, like me, are making up for lost weight. But it’s a visiting wasp that remains uppermost in their minds, not thoughts of my two uncles.

After fears of the wasp mortally stinging either of the twins, a teacher’s baby boy called Charlie or my little old self, the four of us were sped but ever so safely through the doors of the post natal ward that leads back to the Intensive Care Unit and where we first hung out together in the ScaBU.

In my case, grown 15-old-days, graduating to the Nursery, but still kept waiting for a first glimpse of home.

Old Bampy reports that it is becoming ever more like my adoped Uncle Firkin Henry’s dairy in Cressroads, and he goes on to tell everyone the family’s Fiat is used increasingly as a milk float to trip back and forth to the Royal Glamorgan’s neonatal unit.

As often as thrice daily, and with as many as three small pintas of Mamma’s Best aboard for each morning, afternoon and evening delivery from her Graig Expresso in Pontypridd.

Scarce topped with double-cream, however, when mum is contained with Bamps across the corridor from the Special Baby Care Unit as crews for seven fire engines are summoned to attend immediately outside our Nursery door.

With Bamps as well as mum’s help – but as true as I lie here – there’s a fire to tell about to my real as well as adoped family. And not to forget a mention of sick Baby C. Born high on heroin, made well, but taken from her mum and put into care.

Until next time,

Love,

Daisy-Mae www.blogsbody.co.uk