belgianwaffle

Mr. Waffle

Lost in the 1950s


Posted in: Mr. Waffle

Last night we booked a babysitter and with our pre-purchased tickets in paw (8.20 euros a pop, so not cheap) we skipped out to the cinema to see “Lost in Translation”. We were very excited at the prospect of going to the cinema, remember, we’re parents now… It was all very thrilling, so the fact that there was torrential rain and we were soaked to the skin by the time we arrived at the cinema was no problem. We were there in good time to catch all the trailers and then the film started, fantastic.  Except, it was the wrong film. In the thundering rain, we had gone to the wrong cinema (look it’s easier to do than you think, the set up is kind of odd) and in screen one in this cinema they were showing “Mona Lisa Smile”. It was too late to change, so we sat there looking glum. To be fair to “Mona Lisa Smile”, if it wasn’t the only film we were going to see for 3 months, we might have liked it better. But it was pretty dreadful. The actresses were good but they were wrestling with a cliche-ridden travesty of a script. And we kept imagining what “Lost in Translation” might have been like. The fact that the male lead (there for decoration) was in college with Mr. Waffle added mild interest in a “I danced with a man who danced with a girl who danced with the Prince of Wales” kind of way. But it was not enough to sustain our interest for the duration as we steamed dry, although we did laugh at his accent in a cruel way. We’re clearly just jealous, after all, he did get to kiss Julia Roberts.

At the end, they showed a selection of 1950s advertisements which were entertaining, in fact, something of a highlight. I particularly liked the one captioned “She’ll be happy with a Hoover on Christmas morning”. I find it hard to believe that this was true even in the 1950s.

Comments
Locotes

on 10 February 2004 at 18:24

Should I take this moment to remind you how brilliant Lost In Translation is?Maybe not.

And despite your assurances I still find it strange you went into the wrong screen. And even stranger you didn’t get up and move to the right screen. Though I can imagine those 1950’s ads would have been fun – though I’m not sure what you mean about the Hoover….surely it IS the perfect gift?

*ducks slap*

belgianwaffle

on 11 February 2004 at 12:31
(
Comment Modified) Hello Holts, nice to see another (gorgeous, of course, Irish baby). Thank you for sweeties, very generous and partly they make up for the pain…
As for you Locotes, let me explain that the two screens are in different buildings and were separated by torrential rain (for any Bruxellois out there, UGC, Pte de Namur). Ok, the fact that they are in different bldings makes it sound like a hard mistake to make but it’s not – you’ll just have to take a leap of faith here. 0

Locotes

on 11 February 2004 at 16:15

So you were in the wrong building entirely…….right…….you know, I’m not sure that’s making you look any better. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt being in a foreign country and all (though how long are you there at this stage?).Damn, Bill Murray was good….

Oops sorry, did I say that out loud? 0

belgianwaffle

on 12 February 2004 at 08:31

Locotes – Hmm. You be very careful young man or I’ll start dispensing more relationship advice (uses greatest threat..). 0

Locotes

on 12 February 2004 at 12:03

eep! 0

University Challenge


Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Work

Today saw the arrival of my first rejection letter.? Gosh, job hunting is depressing.  I fear there will be more to come. I also rang a headhunter person today.  She told me to send her my CV, so I dutifully composed an email and sent it without attaching my CV. I wonder does this convey quite the impression I was hoping for.

Last night Mr. Waffle and I had the following conversation:

Mr. W: University Challenge is on in 5 minutes.

Me: I know, but we’ll be finished dinner by then.

Mr. W: Have you got your glasses for the picture round?

Me: I can’t remember where I left them…

Mr. W: Are we 70?

Indeed.  Anyway, watching University Challenge with Mr. Waffle is truly depressing because he squirrels away useless information so that he can answer all the questions.  As half the fun is shouting out the right answer when you know it and he knows all the answers my enjoyment is curtailed.  A compromise has emerged.  When I know the answer, I shout “don’t answer it” and zoom in with the answer.  Mr. Waffle then says right or wrong, before Jeremy Paxman does. Hey, don’t knock it, it works for us.

In an effort to add lustre to our social life we are actually going to leave the house this weekend to go to a party. Our regular babysitter is busy so I spent the evening trying to find a substitute. You will be relieved to hear that success attended my efforts. Details of the glittering social function will doubtless be posted in due course.

Comments
princessfairytoes

on 21 January 2004 at 17:21

             

Cooking and Sleeping


Posted in: Family, Mr. Waffle, Princess

Before the Princess was born, I was a really dreadful cook. I could reliably burn instant microwaveable food. However, since the Princess’s birth a weird thing has happened, I have learnt to cook.  There are lots of things you can’t do with an awake small baby including reading.  One thing that you can do though is cook and, over the last nine months, I’ve been doing lots of it and, slowly but surely, I have been getting better.  The one snag is that, so far, I haven’t managed to successfully cook anything for guests but when cooking for two, I really am pretty nifty.  Or so says loyal Mr. Waffle. Larger groups are a problem, I lose my nerve and go to pieces.

Last Friday night, I attempted my most ambitious dinner (for two) to date. We had mashed potatoes (ok, so far so uninspiring, but with grated nutmeg note) with a Jamie Oliver roasted lentil thing and duck breast (with apple fried in butter and fanned around it on the plate) and a port sauce.  I have to say this was ambitious, perhaps a mite too ambitious. It required lots of having everything ready at the same time, so when poor Mr. Waffle came into the kitchen to innocently inquire whether we needed more stands on the table, he found a snarling wife with a pan in one hand and a bottle of port in the other. That duck fat gets pretty hot, so when I added the port, it went everywhere, Mr. Waffle and I dived for cover in the hall (fortunately, Princess was in bed) and, you will be pleased to hear, sustained no lasting injury. Early Saturday morning, I found Mr. Waffle up a stepladder washing port stains off the kitchen ceiling. Still dinner WAS nice, although I spent the remainder of the evening recovering from the strain of making it.

Sunday night, I decided that we would have roast chicken, so far so easy you may say, but I have a problem with roast chicken, I can’t make gravy. I always just end up with lumps of flour on the whisk.  So I followed a recipe I found in Nigella Lawson for gravy without flour. More a jus, apparently. Alas for the jus, I put the chicken on the bottom of the oven. Guess what, you’re not supposed to do that, that’s why they put in all those shelves in. Although the chicken itself was fine, even the addition of white wine and stock didn’t make the juices from the pan taste anything other than pretty unpleasant. No, I am certainly not above instant gravy, but the Belgians are. Bisto and the like are unobtainable in this jurisdiction.

I was reading Nigella Lawson’s thing about chicken and she said that she was a product of her generation and always got fresh organic etc. etc. but for her mother the emphasis was on making indifferent ingredients taste fantastic, mostly by the addition of lots of butter, as I understand it. This struck me as kind of strange, because my mother and I are just the opposite. Not that I look for indifferent ingredients, or that I can necessarily make them taste fantastic but I am not hung up on fresh organic, I mean, I will buy organic if I can, but, if not, then not (except for chicken, battery chickens are too terrifying).   My mother on the other hand is a zealot (she is also an excellent cook and perhaps part of the reason I never bothered to learn, competition was just too fierce).

When I was growing up, we had a fishmonger who delivered fresh fish to the door, or sometimes we went into the market to pick up something.  The fishmonger knew my mother well and they would have long chats about what fish we should have and what their respective children were doing, driving other waiting customers to the edge of reason.  We had a chicken lady for fresh free range chickens.  A couple of times a year, my mother would drive to Limerick (about an hour away from our house) and pack the boot of the car with a frozen cow, pig or lamb, cut into pieces (and bagged, and bagged) by the butcher she knew from Bruree near where she grew up.  He was a farmer on the side and due to my mother’s local contacts, I suppose, he felt obliged to hand over his best animals.  When the Limerick meat ran out, there was always Ashley, her butcher in the market. Ashley, knew a good customer when he saw one and always saluted her cheerily.  She began to feel obliged to buy from him every time she passed. To avoid our house overflowing with dead animals, she used to send one of us children in first to check whether Ashley was at his stall and, if not, she would scurry in to make her other purchases.  And then there’s the vegetable lady.  She supplies organic vegetables and free range eggs.  I suppose, when I first heard that there was a vegetable lady, I had certain expectations of what kind of person she might be. I mean, picture to yourself a vegetable lady.  Anyhow, she turned up at our front door one day when I was at home, and in this terribly superior English accent said “I’m the vegetable woman, is your mother in?” Bizarre.  Still I suppose, fair enough, why shouldn’t she grow organic vegetables in Cork?  I was at home one weekend when I was about six months pregnant and she said to me “Oh you’re pregnant, jolly well done.” Very odd.

In other news, Princess has recovered from recent mystery stomach bug but has developed nasty cough. We discovered this last night when we let her cry for an hour between 10.30 and 11.30.  One of us went to comfort her every five minutes but it still felt pretty grim leaving a sobbing inconsolable baby behind.  Everytime we went in to her, she would wind her chubby little hands around our necks or grab on to hair, nose or ears. It was heartrending, and occasionally painful, disentangling her.  Eventually at 11.30 she developed an alarming cough so, we abandoned our attempt and brought her into our bed for the night.  Even I can see that we are sending out mixed messages.  I am sure that Gina would not approve.  There was an article in yesterday’s English Independent about her. Some unfortunate journalist had a two and a half year old who woke up to play every morning between 4.00 and 8.00.  To summarise the article, not now post Gina he doesn’t.  Gina said a revealing thing as reported in the article: “Mothers don’t like to apply my methods because it interferes with their lunches at Cafe Rouge”.  I think that this is perhaps a little unfair.  Firstly, because, I feel, most mothers are motivated by their child’s best interests and, if that means no Cafe Rouge lunches, then, I suspect, most mothers would say fine.  Secondly, I think that the real reason mothers don’t like Gina’s methods is because they sound heartless (though I would concede that they may be short term heartless, but long term better for baby etc.). Finally, food in Cafe Rouge is kind of mediocre anyway, so why would you bother.  Do you think Gina is a little disapproving of mothers?

Finally, went wild at sales and bought baby clothes that Princess does not need. Must stop buying baby clothes before I beggar us.

Comments
Blake 

on 21 February 2004 at 18:19

   

 

Breastfeeding


Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings

I feel compelled to share my breast feeding experience with the world. Ok, with the three of you who are reading.

Before the Princess was born, like all good aspiring parents we did an ante-natal course. Part of this involved a session with a breast-feeding counsellor. The whole thing was organised by the BCT which is related to the UK childbirth trust. They are very right on in the BCT. They do not believe in infant formula or pain relief. But that was fine then because I was ignorant (forced to admit that I was NEVER going to do the natural birth thing) and didn’t believe that there would be any difficulty.

The breastfeeding counsellor was a Canadian who also teaches yoga. She refuses to use Nestle products because of their general vileness in promoting formula consumption in the third world. I don’t want to sound prejudiced here, but I think this tells you a lot about the type of person she was. I mean, it’s not that I’m in favour of Nestle’s policies or against yoga. I also have nothing against Canadians. No truly, Mr. Waffle was born in Canada and due to their generous citizenship policy has a Canadian passport of which he is very proud. I digress. Anyhow, we all sat around wondering whether we would have to bare our breasts (this was before our first babies were born and we still had a sense of natural modesty). No, but we did have to talk about our breastfeeding history. Was I breastfed? In fact, yes. Mr. Waffle was not breastfed but his siblings were. Ms. BF Counsellor was fascinated “really and is there any difference between how you and your siblings have turned out?” Mr. Waffle, thoughtfully “well, they’re both shorter than me”. Ms. BFC, hissing, “well, I’m sure that that has nothing to do with breastfeeding”. She kind of left us alone after that except to make a number of comments on the famous Irish love of alcohol, which was a little odd and didn’t exactly endear her further to us.

Anyhow, I intended to breastfeed and really didn’t expect to have any problems. And, if I had, hey, I could always give the baby a bottle. The Princess was born and, as you will have noticed, she is the most perfect baby ever created etc. And she was tiny (I know, they’re all tiny) and she was so indignant and kind of miserable to be out in the world where people made her wear scratch mittens. And I was desperate to breastfeed her and comfort her. But we just could not get the hang of it (note how I share the blame here). And she kept losing weight. They wouldn’t let me leave the hospital until she started putting on weight. After 6 days, I was getting desperate. All of the nurses were really supportive and helpful. Except one. She was horrible.? Even her colleagues thought she was horrible. So imagine my horror when I came back to my room after a quick trip out to find this awful nurse feeding my Princess from a bottle. I was gutted. Princess, was loving it though. Let’s remember she was starving. Rotten nurse was very smug. Princess started to put on weight and we were allowed to go home.

I was in a dilemma then. Would I continue feeding my baby from the evil bottle or would I try breast? Fabulous as breast milk was etc., I didn’t want the child to starve. I rang my mother who dispensed lots of advice. She came to Brussels to dispense advice in person. But I just couldn’t get the hang of it. And it was sore? Man, it was sore. This is where the internet becomes a nightmare, it is full of smug sites advising “breastfeeding isn’t supposed to hurt, if it hurts, you are doing it incorrectly and your child is not being properly fed”. So I was in agony and she was starving. We continued on a mostly bottle regime with occasional breast agony. Cabbage leaves are recommended for sore breasts. I tried this out one evening. We went round to the Glam Potter’s for dinner. She has a baby six weeks older than the Princess, so is also in baby mode. Halfway through dinner, her husband said, “where is that awful smell of boiled cabbage coming from?” It was me, the cabbage had cooked on my poor, sore, inflamed breasts. You’d think I’d be mortified, but no, I said “Oh that must be me”, hauled out the cabbage leaves and left them on a side plate. In extenuation, I would point out that GP was having difficulty breast feeding also and, like me, liable to haul our her breasts and baby at the slightest provocation and ask strangers where she was going wrong. If you might take my advice on this, hold off doing that because there are people out there to whom I now regret showing my breasts (this must be what it’s like to be a minor starlet).

So desperate was I that I rang the breast feeding counsellor. She said, “oh it’s too late now – this was about a month in – you’ll never get her to take breast. Why did you give her a bottle in the first place?” I explained about her losing weight, the hospital, the paediatrician’s concerns. She said “you must change your paediatrician to one who supports breast feeding”. This wasn’t really the advice I was looking for. It just made me feel bad. Mr. Waffle suggested I invite her over for a cup of Nestle instant coffee and a kitkat as revenge.

Finally, I found something on the internet. Corky, a very appropriate name in the circumstances, has a free on-line latch on video. And it’s brilliant, it saved my bacon and I finally got the hang of breastfeeding. And despite the fact that my baby had lots and lots of bottles over a two month period, from month 3 on she became an exclusively breastfed baby and I stopped having sore breasts. So, for what it’s worth, these people who say that your baby will never go back to breast after getting a bottle are wrong. So, don’t be disheartened if it doesn’t work out at first. And even if it doesn’t work out at all, I don’t think it really matters that much (although I defy anyone to think that when they are holding their precious new born infant). After all Mr. Waffle was bottle fed and he turned out very tall…

So given my triumph in breastfeeding my baby, I am somewhat reluctant to give up. The WHO guidelines recommend exclusive breastfeeding for six months and complementary breastfeeding up to age two or beyond. I am not going to go on until age 2 which I think is a little weird (though, as time goes on, I find it increasingly less weird, which is a bit worrying), but I think I might continue until 1. In my heart of hearts, I suspect that the breast feeding is part of the reason our baby refuses to sleep (bottle fed babies sleep way better than breast fed babies – hey, telling it like it is). Breastmilk being the most fantastically, wonderful food for babies, it’s very easily digestible (unlike evil formula) and so the baby’s stomach feels emptier faster. But hey, lack of sleep isn’t so bad. Of course, there is also the social aspect. My little brother is very down on breastfeeding. It makes him zoom out of the room. He came to visit recently and asked whether I could at least not do it in public (no, that wasn’t actually the reason for his visit). I think it was for that reason that I chose to breastfeed my baby in the trendy Bodega when I was at home in Cork. He nearly collapsed when I told him. As I explained to him, obviously, I had a sign round my neck identifying myself as his sister. He said in anguished tones “My friend’s baby is only two weeks old and he’s getting a bottle, why do you have to do this?” Ah, if only he’d been around earlier, he could have enjoyed the bottle phase. I pointed out to him that he was breastfed himself. His face on hearing this indicated two things: 1. he did not know that and 2. had he been in a position to choose at the time, he would not have hesitated to go for bottle.

And, if any of you expectant mothers are reading this, the birth was fine. It was the easiest part. Honest. Congratulations to Belgium the home of the epidural – not to be confused with the Netherlands where almost everyone has a natural home birth. And can I recommend a funny book?Vicky Iovinehas written a guide to pregnancy and a guide to motherhood. They’re not bad and something of a relief given all the other stuff about. Jojo, I fear that they may be stealing your thunder a bit..

And finally, my own mother feels that, perhaps, my last entry reflected negatively on her. Was I indicating that becoming my mother was a bad thing. No, clearly not, just a surprising thing – ah, the wicked flee where no man pursueth…now that I am a mother myself, I am much, more appreciative of my own mother who is proving her ongoing dedication by being a guaranteed audience of 1 for my blog.

Ah, is that a baby’s cry I hear in the background? Must go.

Comments

Minkleberry

on 15 January 2004 at 11:20
(
Comment Modified) Hurrah! At last, someone who tells the truth and doesn’t exaggerate. I do want to breastfeed, I know its not going to be easy and (for personal reasons) I hate medical professionals to the point of turning into a teenager and contradicting everythnig they say and being generally contrary. Your recollections and advice is like gold to me. What a great peice.
Thanksxx 2

belgianwaffle

on 15 January 2004 at 15:36

Thank you JoJo and Minkleberry. This is all very affirming (and, of course, sweeties are most exciting too). In fairness, lots of people do seem to get the hang of the breastfeeding thing with no difficulty at all. I hope that this will be true for you two also. If not, I really do thing that formula probably isn’t the work of the devil..

melanie

on 17 January 2004 at 16:06

Yay for you & the breastfeeding! I was sent over by FluidPudding and had to comment to say that for me, breastfeeding hurt A LOT for the first 4 weeks. And the kid thrived, so something must’ve been going right. I ended up nursing him until about 14 mos, and I’m determined to do it for 2 years with the next one. It doesn’t hurt that we go to this hippy homeschooling group where there are a billion 18 mo olds breastfeeding all the time. BTW– he began sleeping through the night at 5 mos. And I wasn’t nearly as sleep deprived once someone pointed out that I could bring him to bed with me in the middle of the night, and sleep through half the feedings. Still, once he did sleep through, I was amazed at how rested I felt. o yeah– this: ” I am not going to go on until age 2 which I think is a little weird (though, as time goes on, I find it increasingly less weird, which is a bit worrying)” sounds completely normal to me, lol.

belgianwaffle

on 19 January 2004 at 14:17

Thanks Melanie, maybe I will continue until age 2, particularly, if I can’t find a job…will have to keep this a secret from my brother though or otherwise he will never speak to me again…

Locotes

on 20 January 2004 at 02:49

I was in the Bodega twice over Christmas – the most unatmospheric place I’ve been to in a long time. No joke. So I obviously missed your own visit as I’m sure it would have turned a few heads. I had to laugh at the torturing of your younger brother though, sure isn’t that what they’re for? 😉

belgianwaffle

on 21 January 2004 at 00:07

Very right on, Locotes. You are entirely correct that torturing is what younger brothers are for.

mcval

on 10 May 2005 at 18:01
(
Comment Modified) Hi everyone,
Belgianwaffle – I had to comment about your breastfeeding saga! I was determined to breastfeed as well when my oldest was born 14 years ago.
It ended up being an emergency C-Section. When I was in the recovery room, the nurse did a quick blood test on him before she was going to hand him over for me to nurse. Just before she could, she saw the results of the blood test and whisked my sick little boy away to ICU. He had dangerously low blood sugar and had to be put on an IV.
I didn’t get to hold him for 9 hours! I was devastated! My husband kept giving me updates on him tho. When I finally got a chance to hold and nurse him, he wouldn’t. Apparently the nurses didn’t get my memo that he was to be exclusively breastfed and gave him a bottle of formula. I was livid… quietly of course…
I had such trouble nursing, SOOO SORE!! I had a couple relatives recommend just bottle feeding him, but I didn’t care what they said. The nurses all helped me try to get him to latch on. I had 3 nurses helping him get his mouth on at one point. Why did I need a robe?!?! I had lost all modesty at that point and whipped my gown open for the air conditioner guy once.
The best advice I got was from the male ICU nurse! He explained my own anatomy of my breast to me and told me to relax. It wasn’t immediate help, but it was very comforting! The clearest advice I’d gotten.
After 3 days I went home with our bundle of boy. It took him about 3 months to learn how to latch on correctly. I used bag balm (made him barf!), all types of creams to make the soreness go away. I even used nipple guards for nursing. How the heck do you use those things!?! What a waste of money!
I nursed him until he was about 9 months old. Saved a TON on formula!
My 2nd and 3rd kids I nursed until they were each one. Working fulltime, I might add! I used a breastpump and kept the milk in the freezer in sandwich baggies. My babysitters would thaw it in a bowl of warm water and stick it in a bottle. Worked great! Only had a male co-worker walk into my office once when I was doing this. He didn’t look me in the eye again for a few years!
To this day, when my husband is trying to get out of our kids what secret present we’re keeping from him is, they say a breastpump. My youngest has no idea what it is, but knows it makes Dad laugh!
What a nice blog site, BTW!
Val
0

belgianwaffle

on 12 May 2005 at 19:30

Hi McVal, thanks for this, it is, of course, particularly embittering to know that some people have no problems at all…

Nurofen


Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess

Gosh, I am really taken with this. As you can imagine, not a lot has happened since mid-day (although I have got two comments – v. exciting, thank you kind commenters). I have also changed the colours on the site to look girly. Oh the thrill. Will there be the option of Christmas backgrounds, I wonder?

You will be delighted to hear that my crabby baby has been restored to health and happiness. This is due to consumption of infant nurofen. I will tell you how I got this because I feel that I should perhaps seek to entertain and this is mildly entertaining.

This year has been a bit of a wedding marathon for me and my beloved husband. With our new baby we have travelled to 6 weddings. That’s a lot of weddings with a small baby. Mr. Waffle churlishly points out that the weddings are designed to be in locations which are expensive and inconvenient to get to.

At one of our weddings our baby got sick. This was the first time our baby was sick and we were traumatised. Mr. Waffle stayed in the hotel bedroom comforting our unhappy tot and I went off to find a doctor. Thus I committed my first social solecism as a mother. You see, I knew that the bride’s mother was a GP. So I hoved up to a sister of the bride and explained my difficulty. Bride’s sister was a tower of strength and rounded up her mother who instantly agreed to examine baby. She brought with her a friend, an American doctor who was a guest at the wedding. So up we went to the room and all four of us trooped in, me, my friend, her mother and the American lady. Poor spouse had not realised my search would bring such instantaneous results and he was pacing up and down in his boxer shorts with roaring baby. Oh dear. Mother of the bride picked up our precious baby by the scruff of her babygrow whereupon she (baby) instantly stopped crying and heaved a sigh of relief. A brief examination and the doctors decided that nothing was wrong except perhaps a slight temperature. Had we any Calpol? No. Any nurofen? No. A thermometer? Alas, no. Doctor shook her head at our ineptitude and thrust a box of baby nurofen upon us. And how useful it has been. Can I recommend this as an investment to all parents of small babies. Particularly if you are going to move to Belgium because all you can get here is baby suppositories and I assure you that babies do not like these.

And, excitement, here is a picture of baby waffle. Please admire.

Comments
JoJo

on 16 December 2003 at 17:17

she is beautiful!

Favourites


Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess

You will see that in my list of favourite blogs, there is only one, Fluid Pudding http://www.fluidpudding.com/index.html. Hey, I’m new to this. I came across FP when I was pregnant and looking for entertaining stuff on pregnancy on the internet. If you are pregnant, I strongly recommend looking at the FP archives. If you have a small baby, also very entertaining stuff. A little scary however on their baby’s eating regime. The FPs are very rigourous on what their baby eats. As someone who nearly choked her baby on a croissant recently, this makes me feel a bit bad.

Today in the waffle household things are improving. Baby waffle is 8 months old and teething. We are, on the whole, relieved. Her father has pointed out that she is falling behind her age cohort in tooth and hair production. At least her teeth are catching up.

I must note that Mr. Waffle is not entirely pleased with the initial entries. Since he compromises, as far as I know, one half of my reading public these complaints are not to be taken lightly. In the interest of balance, I wish to inform readers that although Mr. Waffle has been out three nights this week while we languished at home, he has hardly been out at all since April.

Comments
pixie_scandinavian_female_leprechaun

on 12 December 2003 at 15:14

wow I don’t envy you..teething can be a night mare! good luck!