I am a moustachioed, hessian-wearing librarian, and proud of it

My response to this.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-33904758

Let's consider another example of what he might have said, to see how ridiculous this is.

"I don't know what it is with all these mothers these days, feeding their children bananas in public.  Don't they understand that I-and probably some other fellas for that matter-don't like to look at bananas?  They make me feel uncomfortable.  Don't they realise that bananas are quite phallic in appearance, and therefore they remind me of sex.  How inappropriate to be feeding your child-yes, a child-a banana in public!  It gives me associations in my head that I really do not want.  It's practically peodophilia.  And besides, bananas don't grow in this country so it's totally unnatural.

"Of course, it was different in the Stone Age, when people didn't have their own teeth.  Back then they had to eat bananas as they couldn't eat anything harder, what with the lack of teeth and everything.

"It seems to me that it's only these right-on, free-thinking librarian women that feed their children bananas anyway.  What's wrong with a bag of crisps?  They have some really nice flavours these days.

"However, if it's an attractive woman eating a banana, then of course that's fine.  I bet all the other fellas would agree too." 

O Sleep How You Taunt Me

Piglet went to sleep at 7.15pm today.  ***KLAXON***

I am braced for a rough night when he inevitably wakes up in an hour or so, having regarded his current period of sleep as nothing but a later-than-normal nap, and sits bolt upright in bed, before launching himself at me head first and emitting a high pitched scream into my ear, headbutting me and biting my face.

This sort of physical attack is, I believe, what passes for a sign of affection with Piglet.

Either that or he actually detests me.

He is, of course, sleeping in the bed.  I would hardly be so bold as to put him in his cot.  For a start, there is no sheet on the mattress as the combined intellects of myself and my mother couldn't work out how to fit one on without the ends of the mattress curling up, and secondly, he will not sleep in a cot anyway.

An old photo, but one which I feel sums up roughly how Piglet feels about being in a cot.

I had long suspected this to be the case, but I had spent so many months gathering him up into my arms and taking him into the bed with me at the first sign of a whimper that he had barely spent any time in the cot and so I couldn't be sure.  Then, last week, when we were on holiday in Cornwall, came the acid test.

The travel cot we had ordered had been placed into what I can only assume was supposed to be the children's room in the caravan, judging by the size of the single bed in there, which was slightly narrower than the average shelf.  O the folly of these holiday caravan people who have never met Piglet and I, and who must have assumed that he has something known as a "routine," and sleeps at a time of his parents' (they must have assumed there were two, sleeping in the double bedroom) choosing, in a room which is designated for the exclusive use of a child or children plural.  O what folly (*shakes fist at the idea of a nuclear family with a routine*)

And so I bravely steeled myself for a night on the shelf (metaphorically, surely the story of my life), and laid Piglet down into the travel cot for his slumbers.

After feeding him to sleep of course (*guffaws heartily at the idea of him doing any of that "settling himself to sleep" that the parenting books are always talking about*).

It lasted about an hour.

I duly fed him to sleep again, and popped him back in the cot.

Another hour.

Now this, I told myself, was normal.  Piglet always wakes up at least every few hours and I then feed him to sleep again.  The only difference was that it would normally involve simply rolling over and proffering a boob rather than lifting him out of the cot, but still.  I even started to think that Piglet was getting the hang of this sleeping in a cot lark.  Who knows, perhaps in a few years time he'll even progress to settling himself to sleep like the parenting books say all babies should by the age of three months.

Again he went to sleep, and again he woke up an hour or so later.

Only this time, he was sitting bolt upright in the cot and surveying the room with interest.  Not a good sign.

The next two hours included the following:

Breastfeeding repeatedly in a desperate attempt to get him to go back to sleep
Leaving the room to find a fresh nappy only to wake up the entire caravan (damn you thin paper caravan walls!)
Piglet greeting the rest of the caravan's occupants with squeals and giggles
More breastfeeding

And finally:

Lying down on the very edge of the shelf with Piglet on there next to me, crammed against the thin caravan wall and intermittently banging on it, keeping my brother and his partner (in the "parents" room next door) awake.

I should probably add here that since I started writing this post I have had to put the laptop aside twice to feed Piglet back to sleep.

One day, he will learn to settle himself to sleep.  One day.

Breastfeeding + Work = Nightmare

Well, it had to end sometime.  I am now back to work.

This is not as hideous as it could be, but it is like, JOKES trying to pump milk at work.  So far I have combed all the staff toilets looking for plug sockets "just on the off-chance," commandeered an office at lunchtime which then turned out to have a huge window looking out onto a building site, not to mention the students knocking at the door looking for the office's usual occupant; left various parts of the breast pump in the dishwasher and, most ridiculously of all, temporarily lost a crucial part of the pump, a piece of plastic tubing.  The latter led to a wild goose chase around every Currys and Maplin in the vicinity hollering at baffled teenage shop assistants about how I needed a replacement breast pump tube and did they stock them in here?

Luckily the tubing turned up just as I had given it up for lost and was on the verge of purchasing a new pump (I should probably add that the pump does not even belong to me), and I was so delighted that I nearly ran around the school holding it above my head in triumph.

Other than that, things have been fairly quiet.  Piglet is always glad to see me when I pick him up at the end of the day; usually spending the entire journey home headbutting my chest and wailing.  I'm sure what he actually sees when he looks at me is a giant boob full of forbidden milk, which to be honest is pretty much how I feel by the end of the day, especially if my one trusted pumping room has been hogged by the bloody careers advisor all day.

More Unsolicited Advice from the Good People of Wembley

So I regale you with yet another tale of how when you have a baby, everyone considers it their God-given right to tell you how to parent.

I had, as usual, carefully considered how Piglet and I were presenting ourselves to the world, in order to deflect any unwanted comments.  Piglet was wearing his snowsuit, and despite the fact that it wasn't even that cold, I had also brought a blanket to cover him with, lest any well-intentioned individuals decide that I was a neglectful mother for not swaddling Piglet to within an inch of his life.  As we were travelling by bus, I considered taking him out in the sling, so that we wouldn't be taking up space that may be required by a wheelchair user, or a person with more children than me, whilst also winning bonus points by carrying my baby, which according to the doctrines of attachment parenting is better for the child than being pushed in a pram, because they can like, hear your heartbeat and stuff.  And also it's what people did in the olden times back on the savannah, innit.  Then I decided against it, as surely if babywearing is indeed better for the child, it wouldn't result in said child yelling all the way to Ealing because the way Mummy is sitting on the bus is uncomfortable for him, and then being knackered and unable to sleep the whole time we are out as there is nowhere for him to lie down.  So, like the selfish mother that I am, I took the pram.

This was all fine until the way home, when I was sitting contentedly on the bus with Piglet blissfully asleep, until a particularly loud party of schoolchildren walked past, and Piglet woke up.  Like he always does when there is any hint of noise.  After all, in the olden times back in the cave, he had to stay alert all the time just in case a sabre toothed tiger was hanging around, hoping for a bit of a nosh up.  For a while, he was content to sit quietly, looking around (there were surprisingly no sabre toothed tigers on the 83 bus, just a mad bloke who kept caressing the pole with the bell on it) but as time went on, the traffic got worse and he started to get bored, the whingeing started.

"Don't worry," I told him reassuringly, "we'll soon be home."

Judging by the state of the traffic, this was at best an optimistic estimate, and at worst an outright lie, but Piglet had not yet descended into actual shouting, so surely the other passengers on the bus could put up with the occasional whimper.

And then the elderly man next to me turned to me and explained everything.

"He wants milk."

Well, at least he had got Piglet's gender right.  This was an improvement from earlier in the day, when I had been in Boots buying mascara and the woman at the counter leaned over and said knowingly to Piglet, "you'll be wearing that before too long!"  Not wanting to conform to gender stereotypes by protesting that he was actually a boy, I had nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

I explained to the man on the bus that Piglet was going to be fed when he got home, but I didn't really want to breastfeed him on the bus, and anyway, hunger was not the cause of his discontent on this occasion.  Why I felt I had to justify myself to the entire cohort of the 83 bus I do not know, but I immediately assumed that the man thought that I must be starving my child.

Which he obviously did, as his next comment was, "he needs nipple.  Somebody give him nipple."

SOMEBODY?  

Emergency!  Emergency!  Piglet is showing a small amount of displeasure on public transport!  The logical conclusion to this is that I am officially such a terrible specimen of mother and general human being that I need someone else to feed my starving baby as I am incapable of doing it myself by means of breast, bottle or solid food.

Piglet Commences Destruction of Entire House

Piglet had his second settling in session with the childminder today.  This went well, right up until the point where we were on the way home and Piglet, who has never been one for eating and drinking anything other than breast milk, decided that he was now hungry.  Hungry enough to start licking the zip of my leather jacket whilst he sat in the sling.  I fervently prayed that there would be a train due when we got to the station.  Luckily there was.

It was due in 46 minutes, to be precise.

Now apparently, it is possible to breastfeed in my sling, at least according to the instructions.  Once, whilst carrying Piglet in it, I came across a heavily pregnant woman in the sling section at John Lewis.  She was thinking about which sling to buy, and wanted one she could use for feeding, as clearly we all do with the best intentions and plans that for most of us start to go awry right around the time of the first contraction when it starts to become clear that there is not going to be any whalesong involved in the whole birth thing, nor is it likely to take place in a bathtub strewn with rose petals and surrounded by fragrant Jo Malone candles while you practise your deep meditation techniques and allow yourself to open like a lotus flower to expel the baby gracefully and gently from the depths of your womanhood.   Like the wizened old sage that I am, I said that in theory yes you could breastfeed in this sling, but I personally had not quite managed it.

This is because it is IMPOSSIBLE.  Without even going into the nightmare that is breastfeeding in the early weeks, when you can't even wear a bra because your nipples are too sore and you end up walking around Tesco with big wet patches on your dress from the leaking milk, and where the baby regularly remains attached to the breast for up to an hour and a half (each side), leaving you with basically no time to do anything else; even now, as a relatively advanced breastfeeder, breastfeeding in a sling involves skills I simply do not have.

The trouble was, I was now at a station, waiting 46 minutes for a train and with a baby who was so hungry he was licking my jacket.  Remarkably, I managed to hoist up my top and discreetly proffer a nipple from within the sling without too much difficulty.  And would Piglet take said nipple?  No he would not.  He did not even appear to be able to see it.  After all, why would he be eating in an upright position, whilst being carried around, when on every other occasion he is reclining and being cradled in Mummy's arms?  This then led to twenty minutes of standing around trying to wave a nipple in Piglet's face while he, able to smell the milk, got excited and rooted around, completely unable to find the breast, before I gave up, took him out of the sling and sat on the seat and fed him normally, which is what I would have done from the outset had I not been worried about the location of the station being near to my school, and the possibility of truanting teenagers popping up and filming the whole thing and posting it on Youtube.

Anyway, things are now OK again, as I have just produced this.  Yes folks, this is what it actually looks like when not in the breast.  Like milk, to be precise.

O the wonders of new-fangled breast pumps.  I feel like a dairy cow.  I'm sure they have a similar sense of achievement when they see the vats of milk going off to Tesco and Asda.   Finally the mystery of how Piglet keeps getting bigger and bigger is solved.  It certainly isn't through solids, as most of them end up on the floor.  Piglet takes great delight in pulling the tray off the Bumbo seat and waving it around in a way that makes me wonder if he is going to grow up to be some sort of delinquent n'er do well.

Speaking of which, on Tuesday I was reminded during a particularly uncomfortable ride on the number 83 bus of a scene I once witnessed on a National Express coach, where a woman was trying to get her toddler to sit down on the seat, and said toddler refused and continued to stand up on the chair, even when the coach started moving.  I remember thinking that if it was my toddler I would have marched stridently off the coach, with the little urchin in my arms, saying they could kick and scream all they wanted but they would not be spending a two and a half hour coach journey refusing to sit nicely in their seat and we were not going anywhere until they did as they were told thank you very much.

That was until Piglet decided to re-enact this entire scene on a packed bus during rush hour.  I basically had to hold him aloft like the baby Simba in the Lion King for the entire gridlocked journey so that he had a panoramic view out of the window, lord and master of all he surveyed on Wembley High Road.

He is now exploring the living room and looming dangerously close to the DVD player, which he is examining thoroughly as though he is about to start taking it apart and destroying it slowly, piece by piece.

Oh, he has now moved on to trying to smash up the television with one of my bangles.  Time for an intervention, methinks.

Right, I've given him a ball.  That should keep him happy for a couple of seconds until it rolls away.  Already there is a lamp in the living room which no longer works after Piglet decided to pull on the wires attached to it for a few seconds before I rushed over, shouting "don't touch anything ELECTRICAL!  NOT THE PLUG SOCKETS!"

And he isn't even crawling yet.

What is this nap time of which you speak?

I haven't written on here recently as I have been spending most of my life wandering around Wembley in a dead-eyed haze, pushing a pram containing a wide-eyed and alert Piglet, who sits staring at me blankly as I plead with him to take a nap.

He does actually need a nap.  He has all the signs.  All the signs that every baby book and website says are there to tell you that the baby has gone past his window of normal drowsiness, and has passed into the realm of the wired clubber at 6am getting second wind after fifteen vodka Red Bulls.  The yawning, the eye-rubbing, the screeching; even the frantic crying when put into the pram and forced to wait for an inordinately long period of time for Mummy to rush around the flat taking such obscene liberties as grabbing the keys and putting shoes on before we can actually leave.

And every time I tell myself, through the persistent and ear-splitting screams, he will be asleep as soon as we leave this flat and start moving.  Please God, don't let the neighbours think I'm some sort of heinous child abuser.

The thing is, back in Ye Olden Days (a few weeks ago), Piglet did fall asleep as soon as we started moving, but now he is far too excited at the prospect of having a little wander round Baby Gap, or  watching Mummy drink a latte in Cafe Nero, that he simply Will.  Not.  Sleep.

Today we walked the entire perimeter of Wembley Stadium (which is a surprisingly long walk, let me tell you), being buffeted by gales (it's randomly very windy up there.  Sort of like being in the middle of the sea), with Piglet wide awake and wired, eyeing me from his car seat with the slightly insane look of the sleep-deprived.  We walked so far that we encountered a whole new Sainsbury's which I didn't know existed (forgive me my excitement.  I live a simple life).  We saw people dressed as actual real monks and nuns.  One was in a full-on authentic Mother Teresa outfit.  I thought it was her until I remembered that she was dead.  I thought I might be hallucinating through lack of sleep but it turns out that there was a Catholic event at Wembley Arena.  Actual monks and nuns in the genuine uniforms people!  Who knew?  It was a bit like that moment in my first term of university when two people in the E block kitchen started talking about their boarding schools and I started guffawing with laughter as those things died out in the 1950s and only lived on in the Mallory Towers books, right?

And through all this, Piglet continued to sit in his pram, wide awake, taking it all in.  We went into Cafe Nero and he behaved impeccably, sitting bolt upright in his car seat like one of those black and white pictures of bonnet-clad 1930s babies in their humungous prams, fixing their gaze on the camera in a steely stare while children in rags play hopscotch around them.  We then went home and all hell broke loose, with persistent shouting interspersed with a few brief periods of quiet where Piglet was pulling his Bumbo seat apart while I tried to get him to eat his dinner, followed by an hour and a half of constant breastfeeding.

He is now asleep, but for how long?

Note to self: Stop reading parenting blogs (that aren't this one, obvs.)

What is it about parenting that makes everyone go all Judgey McJudge?

Well, not everyone, but more specifically, me.

No, in fact, everyone.  Everyone does this.

OK I admit I was quite judgemental beforehand, in a "well that outfit isn't very suitable for work now, is it?" kind of way, but with motherhood this tendency seems to have gone stratospheric.  

Take our weekly swimming class for example; it's a veritable showcase of all the things I can get judgey about: four year olds with dummies, baby girls clad in head to toe pink outfits, babies wearing jewellery.  The list is endless.  And on Wednesday at Baby Club I almost had to slap myself when I started getting all judgey over a three week old guzzling a huge bottle of formula.  For all I know, it might not have even been formula.  It could have been condensed milk for all I knew, but the point is why should I care?  It's blatantly NONE OF MY BUSINESS.  I think I am turning into this woman.

http://www.thealphaparent.com/

Yes I am getting a bit obsessed with this blog.  I think it appeals to my judgemental side.  I quite liked it while it was banging on about things that I already do and Why They Are The Best Way of Doing Things and Everyone Else Is Wrong, e.g. breastfeeding, co-sleeping and hating on all baby books ever written, but my new found love (and smugness) quickly turned to disappointment when a post appeared which detailed why "married parents are the best parents."

Clearly I am not, after all, doing everything right.  

Or maybe I should just take the words of someone who calls themselves "The Alpha Parent" and illustrates their blog with a picture of a mother with a halo, Virgin Mary style, apparently with no trace of irony, with a pinch of salt.  What's that halo about anyway?  If anyone is like the Virgin Mary, clearly it's me.  I bet the Alpha Parent didn't have an immaculate conception.  Perhaps I should write a post about why parents who have immaculate conceptions are the best parents, as clearly all this judgemental motherhood is just all of us desperately trying to justify our own personal life choices, whether they be marriage, breast/formula feeding, babywearing, baby led weaning or being Gina Ford. Or maybe we should just all accept that there are a million and one acceptable ways of doing things, and we should all just be nice to each other.  What a revolutionary idea.  At least that way the Daily Mail would definitely go out of business.

Piglet Goes to Church

Argh.  The trouble with Christmas is that every Tom, Dick and Harry that you may or may not be related to wants to spread the festive cheer by having their say about your parenting skills.  

Take yesterday, for example.  Mother and I had been out with Piglet, running errands, and on the way home passed the house of a friend of hers.  We went in, to find that my mother's friends were entertaining a friend of their own, one of the Older Generation.

My mother's friend kindly offered us a lift home and I wanted to walk home with Piglet in the sling, so declined the offer, citing the fact that we didn't have our car seat as a reason.  I could have told the truth, but saying, "actually as nice at it is for you to offer, I hate accepting lifts from people who are not members of my immediate family, as it makes me feel like a carless pleb reliant on the charity of others," but that might have been considered a weird answer, so the car seat was a handy excuse, and also factually correct so unlikely to offend.

Then Older Generation chipped in with the obviously well-thought out point, "well, what do you think people did in the days before car seats then?"

I don't know.  Die horribly in car crashes?

Sorry Fire Brigade, it was nice of you to offer to install one of those new-fangled smoke alarms, but I'm going to pass, thanks.  If there's a fire, it'll be OK.  I'll just burn to death, like in the olden days!

No Doctor, no need to use any of that modern medicine on me.  Just leave me to die in wretched agony.  It's what people did in the olden days!

And while you're at it, you can forget that anaesthetic too.  I love the pain, me!  Everyone knows things were better in the olden days!

I might add that Older Generation had already at this point come out with a few non-child-rearing related gems, including a denial of climate change ("I'm sure it's getting colder.  They just don't want to admit they were wrong!") and the astonishing possibility that the hole in the ozone layer may have been caused by spacecraft flying through it ("funny how there was never a hole until after they started going into space, isn't it?").

I shot back that it was the law to put your child in a car seat, thank you very much, which led to a few discussions about whether it actually is the law.  I can only assume that if seatbelts are mandatory then surely so are car seats.  Anyway not only am I not planning on testing it out, but surely they wouldn't pass a law against smoking in cars with children if it was still OK to be driving about with a baby sitting on your lap, even though I'm pretty sure that Britney Spears managed to do just that a few years back without being arrested.  Only in America.  Thinking about it, it's remarkable that the police over there didn't shoot her.

Anyway, if I had thought that being criticised for wanting to make sure my baby travelled in relative safety rather than on my lap, Spears-style, just like it was in those halcyon days of the 1970s when Britain's roads were so much safer, everybody left their doors unlocked and beer was 10p a pint, was the only critique of my parenting skills that I would have to put up with over the holiday, I was sadly mistaken.  On Christmas Eve, despite being a godless heathen, I suddenly developed a nostalgic urge to go to church.  Probably something to do with the pretty candles and nice, cosy Christmas carols, rather than any of the Word made flesh, Jesus came to earth to deliver us from our trespasses, God stuff.  And also I do have a bit of an affinity with the Virgin Mary, especially at Christmas with all that virgin birth stuff, what with Piglet being an immaculate conception, and all that.  And also I once saw her, in a Renaissance painting, spraying milk out of her breast literally across the room into the mouth of a kneeling saint, who looked absolutely ecstatic with joy at the privilege.  And I can now do that.  I sprayed Piglet right in the eye the other day.  He wasn't quite as happy about it as St Bernard of Clairvaux seemed to be, in fact he screamed, but the point is I have magical Virgin Mary-style breastfeeding SKILLS.

What was I saying?  Oh yes, so I decided we were going to church.  Me, Piglet and my mother, off to the church where my mother got married thousands of years ago, to sing Away in a Manger with the lights off whilst holding symbolic oranges.

I thought my mother would approve of my sudden religiosity.  She did not.

"IT'S TOO COLD OUTSIDE!" she thundered, as if I had just suggested taking Piglet to the South Pole in a re-enactment of Captain Scott's ill-fated voyage, complete with authentic equipment from 1912.  "HE'LL CATCH A COLD!"  

I pointed out-wisely, I thought-that one did not catch a cold as a result of being somewhere cold.  One caught chilblains and frostbite, yes, but not the common cold.  In fact, a cold is a virus that one catches from another infected person.  Reluctantly, Mother agreed to join me at church, but not before berating me throughout the entire journey for my fecklessness in taking Piglet in the sling instead of the ("much warmer") pram.  Once we got there, we took a seat right at the back, Mother reasoning that it would be easier to make a quick exit in the event of the relentless screaming that she obviously thought was going to be the outcome of forcing a five month old baby to sit through a church service.  Piglet, clearly his mother's son, did not seem to enjoy all the sermons and Jesus stuff, causing a small child who was sat in front of us to turn around and say to me knowledgeably, "I think he's tired."

Yes I know, I'm a terrible mother who has dragged my poor long-suffering baby to church against his will, when he's tired.  Which he always is, BECAUSE HE CAN'T SETTLE HIMSELF TO SLEEP GODDAMIT!  ARGH!

There was one moment when I thought I was going to be launched into the role of Pushy Stage Mother when one of the vicars (there were, like, three.  Times have changed since I was last in church) asked if there were any babies in the church and I waved Piglet enthusiastically above my head, thinking he was going to get to play the coveted role of the Baby Jesus in some sort of Christmas nativity play, but sadly all I got was to say his name and age into the microphone, while the vicar looked at me slightly puzzled, clearly thinking she had never heard of a baby called that before and why wasn't his name Alfie or Harry or some other sort of popular baby name, and was it a boy or a girl, one can never tell these days.

Anyway, despite my mother's best attempts to save the day by grabbing Piglet off me every time he whimpered and trying to exit the church in a dramatic fashion and prove that her silly daughter was a far inferior specimen of mother as she couldn't even keep the baby quiet in God's Holy House, we managed to last until the end of the service.  Long enough, in fact, for me to get to go to the front and collect a special candle stuck into an orange for Piglet, leading one of the vicars to remark sniffily, "He's a bit young!" as I did so, clearly thinking he hadn't spent the best part of Christmas Eve sticking jelly babies on the end of cocktail sticks so that inadequate specimens of motherhood such as myself could pretend to take them for their babies and then eat all the sweets themselves, and then never darken the door of the church again until next Christmas Eve, for the free sweets and nostalgic Away in a Manger singing.

He obviously didn't know about my immaculately conceived child and special Virgin Mary breast milk-squirting skills.  We would have been PERFECT for the nativity play.

The Curse of the Mummy Clothes

Not a terribly productive day.  Currently procrastinating cleaning the flat and using Piglet's current slumbers as an excuse.  We cannot have him being woken up by the vacuum cleaner after all.

In fact, today's activities consisted of: going downstairs to check my mailbox, baking chocolate cookies and going to the bank.  As I am currently desperately trying to reclaim my Public Badge of Good Motherhood and also as the first of these necessitated going outside briefly, Piglet was trussed up in a snowsuit for a walk of several metres across the courtyard, whilst I was wearing leggings and a T-shirt.  Granted we were only actually outdoors for a matter of seconds, but what would people think if they saw a wee bairn like Piglet snowsuitless and wearing just a hat and indoor clothes in December?  I also had to put him in the sling for the journey, as what would people think if they saw me carrying around a baby in my arms?  I mean, it's just not safe.

Later on we went to the bank and Piglet finally managed to have a nap in the pram, and we went into a charity shop for a look around, only for Piglet to be woken up by a screaming child who wasn't him, and who in my opinion was a bit too old to be sitting in a pushchair, but then I'm no expert in toddlers and I can envision a day when someone thinks that about Piglet, so I will try not to judge.

Anyway, by far the most important thing about the visit to the charity shop was not Piglet's rude awakening, but the fact that I found a dress for one pound.  Yes, ONE POUND.  It wasn't exactly a masterpiece, but ONE POUND!  I found myself explaining the style of the dress to my mother thus:

Mum: "So, what's it like then, this dress?"
Me: "Er, it's kind of like, a dress."
Mum: "What colour?"
Me (realising this makes it sound like a primary school summer uniform circa 1989) "Pink and white checked."
Mum: "What size?"
Me: Noting that the size had not even occurred to me when I bought it "Well, it fits.  Sort of.  It's long.  It looks OK with a belt.  It would have cost, like twenty pounds in a vintage shop."

I stopped just short of describing it for what it was; a tent-like object which which was probably previously worn as an overall for cleaning the house, but still, ONE POUND.  And yet I still feel guilty for buying it, even more guilty, randomly, than I do when I spend £2.50 on a latte, even though that is more than twice what I paid for the dress.  There's just something about clothes, sitting there in the wardrobe, that invites guilt.  Perhaps it's the fact that the only things I wear these days are those in the list below.

My list of mummy clothes, a.k.a. the only things I am allowed to wear now that I am of the maternal persuasion.
Leggings-some of which are from Primark-ugh.  A total waste of £3 as they don't even fit properly.  Thanks Primark.  Thanks for making your size eight leggings more like AGE EIGHT.
Orange T-shirt from American Apparel which slides off easily, therefore good for breastfeeding.  Also good for accidentally revealing entirety of bra to Wembley High Road.  Speaking of bras....
Two M&S nursing bras (all other bras currently in storage until they can be worn/fit again).
Multipack of M&S Giant Mummy Pants.  I'm not sure that's the name they were advertised by on the website, but it is implicitly understood that this is what they are.  And my Caesarean scar is still a bit too tender to wear anything that isn't a Giant Mummy Pant.  The jury's out on whether I will ever wear acceptable underwear again.  Once you've worn a Giant Mummy Pant, nothing else is ever comfortable enough.
Sensible shoes.  I grant that what is sensible for me isn't necessarily sensible for everyone else, but put it this way, they are not Jeffrey Campbells.
Parka coat.  No more spectacular furry creations.  Everything has to be waterproof and have a hood.
Pyjamas.  In fact, I basically just live in these.

So in other words, that pound might have been better put towards the cost of a latte.  I probably would have got more wear out of it.

New Sport of Ostentatious Breastfeeding Makes Wembley Debut

And so for a bit of ostentatious breastfeeding.

Well not at the moment.  At the moment I am watching X Factor on mute so as not to wake Piglet from his slumbers.  Michael Buble is either singing or talking to someone who may or may not be Nelly Furtado.  Without the benefit of sound, they both look like they're hosting the Eurovision Song Contest and are having a faux-hilarious conversation about the merits of Azerbaijan whilst pretending to look excited about the prospect of someone from Bosnia-Herzigovina singing a heartfelt ballad in Serbo-Croat.

Anyway, today Piglet again behaved impeccably throughout swimming, and another comment was made about how relaxed he seemed to be in the water (another star on my Public Badge of Good Motherhood).  One poor child was screaming so much his parents took him out of the water, which would not have even merited a comment here were it not for the fact that I caught Piglet watching him with interest as his parents tried to take him to the other side of the pool to test to see if he could go in again without crying, and I am pretty sure that he was taking notes.

Piglet's impeccable behaviour continued throughout the afternoon as I went to meet friends for coffee, but then sadly decided to deteriorate right at the point when Mummy and friends decided that they wanted a mulled wine at the Christmas market.  The following farcical events then ensued.

1.) Piglet starts screaming.  This is worrisome.  Previous attempts to feed him in Costa Coffee have been unsuccessful; partly because my eyes are constantly scanning the room for any signs of Nigel Farage or Katie Hopkins come to chase me into the corner, where I will sit behind a taped-off police cordon marked with the sign "Danger!  Breastfeeding woman ahead!" with a napkin draped over me; and partly because I am wearing an enormous fluffy jumper which gets in the way.

2.) Piglet is briefly distracted by some fairy lights.  Thank the Lord for fairy lights!  And for being born at Christmas, allowing us all to have fairy lights!  This gives Mummy enough time to chug down the greater part of of a cup of mulled wine, keeping it well away from Piglet of course (remembering the health visitor's dire warning about a baby they saw recently who had been scarred for life by a hot drink).

3.) The fairy lights are forgotten, and the crying resumes.  Mummy attempts a fair bit of ostentatious breastfeeding, standing on the table yelling "Look everybody!  I'm breastfeeding!" squirting jets of milk at the two other people in the open air Christmas market bar, and the five bouncers they have inexplicably needed to employ to keep those two people under control.

4.) OK that last one was inaccurate.  What actually happened was that Mummy had to take off Piglet's hat and unbutton his coat while the Public Badge of Good Motherhood fell from its privileged position on Mummy's lapel in the cold December air, and attempt to latch Piglet onto the breast while the fluffy jumper and Piglet's fluffy coat conspire to render such a feat impossible.  Well, I couldn't take the coat off as IT'S DECEMBER GODDAMIT AND THE BABY MIGHT FREEZE, and I couldn't remove the fluffy jumper either in case Nigel Farage happened to be promenading past arm in arm with Katie Hopkins and THERE WAS NO CORNER IN THIS EDIFICE.  I mean, it was like, in the open air! It was just a roof with some tables!  And it was sort of a bar as well, which serves ALCOHOL, so what was I even doing in there with a baby?  Off with my head!

5.) As things get even more fraught, I decide we may have to vacate the area, and knock back the remaining mulled wine.  As I do so, some of the mulled wine spills onto Piglet's fluffy white coat.  It looks like blood.  AARGH!  I am terrible mother!  I have done something terrible to baby!*

6.) That's it.  We're going home.  I look around.  The five bouncers are looking at me in a judgemental way which says, "you are a disgrace to motherhood.  Get Nigel Farage on the phone IMMEDIATELY."

And that, my friend, is ostentatious breastfeeding.

* I must add here, before you all call social services, that the mulled wine was, by this point, cold.  Piglet was never in any danger from the mulled wine spillage.  Put down your phones, people.

And the winner of the Best Dressed Baby Award is....

It sounds like something out of the Smash Hits Poll Winners Party circa 1993, but it's official, I have the best dressed baby in Wembley.  Winner of the Elle Style Awards, Special Commendation from Anna Wintour, Vogue Baby of the Year.  Move over Blue Ivy, Prince George and North West.  Yes, the play worker at Baby Club (n.b. this is not a nightclub.  That would bring a whole new meaning to the phrase "nappy night") complimented Piglet on his outfit today with the words, "another lovely outfit this week!"  Yes ANOTHER.  See, Piglet is known throughout North West London for his baby chic.  Let us gloss over that incident with the poo in the dungarees. That was, like, MONTHS AGO.

As for myself, I have not been faring quite so well in the sartorial stakes.  For the second time in a row, we got up too late for me to have time to apply any make up before we left the house, so not only was I slap free-something that has become alarmingly commonplace in recent weeks-but the waistband of my maternity jeans (yes I am still wearing them) sits sufficiently low on the hips for me to have to continually hoist them up to avoid displaying my giant M&S mummy pants to the world.  Not that this was the biggest fashion faux pas at baby club today, as just as we were leaving there was a woman bending down to put her shoes on who was showing her entire bottom.  Imagine the furore if THAT happened in Claridges.

Speaking of which, I have been trying to express milk again, to no avail.  My euphoria upon discovery of the fact that hand expressing is a) possible and b) not the excruciatingly painful debacle I had expected it to be was tempered by the fact that the couple of drips I managed to squeeze out did not, as I had hoped, make much of an impact on the bottle.  One of my antenatal class said her sister had "only" been able to get out 70mls, which compared with my measly few drips, which didn't even register on the millilitre scale, must have been like Niagara Falls.  It now looks increasingly unlikely that I will ever be able to leave Piglet with anybody for longer than half an hour as I have read in baby books that if babies don't learn to take a bottle early on, they never will, and Piglet has never even seen a bottle.  He's going to be the breastfeeding equivalent of those old men in pubs who complain about the yoof of today drinking lager out of bottles instead of real ale from a hearty tankard hung above the bar with their name on it.

In other news, Piglet has discovered that if he flaps his arms about a bit whilst sitting in the washing up bowl (still currently too scared to put him in the giant baby bath, so he is having his baths in the washing up bowl.  The washing up, you will be relieved to hear, goes in the dishwasher) an interesting effect, commonly known as a splash, is created.  Mummy is now soaked to the skin.

Expressing Milk Attempt no. 1: Abject Failure

11pm and Piglet is lying in his co-sleeper, shouting.  God knows what the neighbours must think.  Frankly I'm amazed I haven't had a note through the door telling me to keep the noise down, and while we're at it, social services have been called.  In fact, everybody in my building must see a good deal more of my parenting skills than they would like, given that my living room has no curtains and overlooks a whole bunch of other flats.  Today, for example, the neighbours were treated to the sight of what must have looked like me abusing my breasts with a plastic bottle with a big suction pad attached.

Yes, I tried to express milk in the futile hope that at some point I will be able to leave Piglet with a relative for an hour or so to go out and enjoy some wild times.  Maybe a glass of wine, maybe a day at work, maybe even-gasp!-a date.  OK not the last one.  I have officially retired from the dating scene.

Anyway, this was not a wildly successful enterprise, as the photograph below revealing the results of this experiment shows.

Just to reiterate, in case the photo didn't make things entirely clear, this bottle is EMPTY.  I think most of the few droplets that can be seen are the remnants of a spin in the dishwasher that the breast pump had before I started using it.  So I now have both a manual breast pump and a steam steriliser that are both completely useless.  This was what I ended up with after a walk around the baby section of Boots with my mother while she pointed out the baffling array of items that are required for any sort of bottle feeding: bottles in a variety of shapes and sizes, teats which let the milk out at varying speeds, breast pumps, sterilisers.  I'm still not sure what the latter even do.  Mine is sitting in its box in my living room; a room which, I might add, I until recently described as "minimalist" and which now contains the following: bouncy chair, weaning chair (a small chair for Piglet which looks like a high chair, but on the ground.  Essentially, it's a low chair), feeding pillow, car seat, toy arch, baby gym, play mat, selection of cuddly toys and now a breast pump and steriliser.  And yet I found myself looking at this very room this evening-a room whose strict colour scheme and lack of plastic tat I had previously prided myself upon-and thinking to myself, "now, what this room really needs is a jumperoo."

No, what I really need is a bigger house.  And some curtains.  Definitely need those.  Poor Piglet had to have his bath this evening in full view of most of Wembley.  I'm surprised his naked bottom didn't accidentally end up being beamed to the nation on X Factor.  In fact, what I really need is one of those houses on Escape to the Country, with a large kitchen diner, exposed beams, wood burner and range.  I've already chosen which Aga I want.  The blue one.  And I'll have at least an acre of land with a few outbuildings, hot tub, sauna and holiday let.  Or failing that, I'll just live somewhere that isn't Wembley, and will no longer be followed down the high street by a mentalist waving a can of deodorant in my face and explaining how he bought it, but he no longer wants it and wants to exchange it.  I think he must have mistaken me for this.

We do look pretty similar.

Anyway, thankfully Piglet has now gone to sleep.  It only took about two hours of feeding.  Thank goodness I wasn't relying on that expressed milk.

The Kindness of Strangers.

Why is it that every time I go out, no matter how many times I have fed Piglet (and no matter how many times he has tried to escape from the Hide-the-Boob Tent), and even if I have fed him immediately before leaving wherever I am, by the time he gets on the train home he is hungry again and screaming blue murder as if to alert every passer by within a fifty mile radius that I am a useless and neglectful mother who doesn't feed her baby and who will doubtless end up with a child with a shrunken brain from all the cortisol released during the frantic screaming.

And why is it that as I run from station to home with the pram, reassuring Piglet repeatedly that we are almost home as he shrieks inconsolably, and pointing out every local landmark that he won't recognise to support my point, that EVERY ONE of those passers by feels the need to give me the Look of Death which communicates in no uncertain terms that not only do they-Mr and Mrs Judgey McJudge, the Great British Public-wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment outlined above, but they are also on the verge of calling social services.

And why is it that every time I pass another baby, they are sitting there serenely in their mother's arms, cooing and gurgling into their swaddling bands whilst looking up at their parents with a look of blissful adoration as if they have never shed a tear in their young life.  WHY, WHY, WHY?

And lastly, why are all these people always full of useless suggestions to stop the crying, such as (I kid thee not) blowing on the baby's face?

BECAUSE THAT'S GOING TO WORK

Surely the one time in the history of the world that this worked was when the reason for the crying was a hair or bit of dust or fluff happened to have fallen on the baby's face and was really annoying it until a knowledgeable stranger walked by and blew the offending article away.

It has been mooted (on the Internets, obvs.) that one possible reason for a baby's crying is that a hair has become tightly wound around the baby's finger, toe or (eek!) penis, annoying said baby and potentially cutting off the circulation to the area.  I now live in fear of this happening (particularly the penis situation, especially since today I found one of my own ludicrously long hairs lurking in Piglet's nappy).  However, so far every time Piglet has started to cry on the train, the only thing that can satisfy him is the boob.  And it's hardly practical to whip one out whilst walking down the street, however successful a multi-tasker I consider myself to be.

Yet why have I never seen anyone else in this predicament?

Subsistence Parenting

Yes I admit it.  Guilty as charged.

Yes I did put the baby in the car seat to sleep while I had my lunch.  And we weren't in a car.  And (voice drops to a barely audible whisper) I didn't even fasten the straps.

Surely God will strike me down with a lightning bolt.  Or at the very least a crack team of virtuous mothers will be sent from Mumsnet to chase me with torches and drum me out of town.

In other news, hot on the heels of the two hours sleep I had last night, Mother (my own mother, that is) is constantly hassling me to call the doctor/health visitor/anyone else who might be susceptible to a bout of new-parent hysteria to report all crying episodes.  Anyone would think it wasn't normal for babies to cry and prevent their parents from getting any sleep.

She is also trying to get me to go to a breastfeeding support group in the local area.  Not a bad idea, you might say, except that I am basically Hyacinth Bucket from Keeping Up Appearances and refuse to associate with anyone from the immediate surrounding area as all are plebeians who fail to understand the difference between "your" and "you're."

Anyway, Piglet is waking up now and about to start screaming for food...

He's Wailing, He's Wailing Again...

Well, he is here.  And you know who I mean by "He."

The promised messiah.

In fact, it's not far off.  I have started singing Away in a Manger to him at night and switching the name "Jesus" for His name.  To all extents and purposes, he will henceforth be known as Piglet, the moniker I chose for him in the hospital when I discovered that when he wants feeding he snaffles like a pig.

Piglet is currently in his bouncy chair, in the early stages of crying.  I am guessing that he feels abandoned as his mother has forsaken him in favour of the Internet.  He is, however, starting to look at the shapes on his bouncy chair with interest, which at least suggests that he is not, as I had feared, blind.  One worries about such things, especially when people (my brother) are all too keen to point out how cross-eyed he is, and the midwife encourages me to take him to the doctor to check out his "sticky eyes" (the doctor didn't seem too concerned, although he did hand me a printout from the internet explaining how sticky eyes could be caused by chlamydia caught from me.  Let's hope that's not the case).

Anyway, much as I would love to write a long post explaining the birth and everything that has happened since in excruciating detail, Piglet has now decided to go to sleep and his every sleeping moment is what I call a Mummy Sleep Emergency, meaning that I have to go to sleep as quickly as possible so that I can be alert when he is, which is usually at 3am.  Just so that you can get a feel for an average night, the following is a rough synopsis of how the events of last night unfolded.

10pm Mummy thinks it might be time for bed, and gives Piglet to Granny to bounce about and try to soothe following three hours of solid breastfeeding.  Meanwhile, Mummy starts moving all the things she needs for the night ahead upstairs.  This takes about half an hour, as the list of necessaries is enormous, and includes two tupperware bowls of water (one to bathe his sticky eyes and one to wash his bum), a bag of cotton wool, lanolin ointment for sore nipples (mine, not his), Sudocrem for nappy rash (his, not mine), changing mat, nappies, Infacol (medicine for the mysterious ailment known as "colic" or, in the colloqiual, "windy-pops"), mobile phone, ipad (for keeping myself sane during night feeds), glass of water.

10.30pm Piglet and I settle into bed.  Granny fusses around for ten minutes wondering if Piglet is intermittently "too cold" (closes windows, proffers extra blankets), or "too hot" (opens windows again, unbuttons babygro).  I argue that he is neither and tell her to stop fussing.  Granny eventually leaves.

10.41pm The wailing starts.  I pick Piglet up and feed him.  This takes about an hour.

11.42pm Piglet is back in the cot, following a half-hearted attempt to "wind" him by throwing him over my shoulder into a fireman's lift and patting his back enthusiastically for five seconds until I start worrying I'm going to damage him and put him down, praying that sleep will follow.  I take the opportunity to send a few emails whilst observing Piglet to check he is still breathing and not about to start wailing.

12.00  Sleep!

12.57am Woken by Piglet starting to stir.  Upon peering into the Moses basket, I see that he is violently shoving his fists into his mouth.  This means he wants feeding.  Again.

12.58-2.25am Constant feeding, interspersed with five minute intervals where Piglet lies in my arms studying my face carefully, probably wondering exactly who and what I am.

2.26am Back in the Moses basket, light off, lie down.  Bliss....

2.27am Wailing again.  Pacing up and down the bedroom bouncing Piglet around, singing every nursery rhyme I can remember, along with a few Christmas carols and some of the songs from Grease 2.  Nothing works.

2.35am Granny re-enters the fray, snatches Piglet and does the exact same thing.  I lie in bed with the duvet over my head.  Am officially Useless Mother.

3.37am Granny finally leaves, having failed to settle Piglet.  I feed him again.

4.20am Put Piglet in Moses basket and start praying.  We both finally fall asleep.

6am Wailing again.

See what I mean.  He is already starting to stir again from his brief nap, which commenced 15 minutes ago.  I may never sleep again.

Suddenly inhabiting weird parallel universe consisting entirely of Bugaboo Bees

Well the World Cup has now started and I missed my first England World Cup game since about 1982 simply because I was too tired to stay up and watch it.  Now watching France vs Honduras and although it's only 9pm and I had a nap earlier I am already yawning profusely.

Ooh France have just scored.  Looks like they have finally introduced goal-line technology.

Anyway, I am beginning to feel increasingly like an invalid.  A huge, bloated whale of an invalid at that.  Today I was wearing one of the few dresses that still fit-a floor-length blue vintage number-with flip flops, and had the sudden realisation that I looked like the Virgin Mary, escaped from the nativity play and roaming the streets, sans donkey, looking for some room at the inn.  As my brother quite rightly pointed out, I even had the immaculate conception to match.

Speaking of clothes that don't fit, yesterday my mother and I went to Westfield and I am now the proud owner of two nursing bras, which I think I am going to be wearing from now on as I have actual scars on my breasts from trying to squeeze into my normal ones.  We also bought breast pads (eugh), disposable knickers (EUGH) and worst of all, giant maternity pads (EEUUUGGHH), which are all apparently things I am going to need.  I very much doubt I will ever have sex ever again.  With all the waddling around, I started getting pains that felt like severe period pains in my back and front and at one point (round about the stage I was doubled over in Boots, buying the breast pads thinking this is definitely the end of my life as a style icon and woman about town) I actually thought I was going into labour.  Today my mother was so worried this was going to happen she wouldn't even let me salsa dance at the Marylebone Summer Fayre-probably the world's most middle class event, which we had accidentally stumbled into and which became something of an ordeal for my brother as my mother and I spent literally every moment exclaiming "look, ANOTHER Bugaboo Bee!  I've never seen so many Bugaboo Bees in my life!  It's like a Bugaboo Bee conference!" to each other repeatedly.  Looks like I have the Marylebone It Pushchair.  I either have very middle class tastes, or I am a total trend-follower. Or both.

Anyway, I am going to have to go now as I literally cannot stay awake any longer.  I'm off to dream crazy pregnant dreams about the baby kicking a hole in my stomach again.

Alcohol: Taunting Me With Its Presence

Currently lying on the sofa recovering from a very strenuous weekend.

I stayed up until 1am on Friday (1am!), then had my baby shower yesterday and finally topped it all off with a breastfeeding class today.

Luckily we didn't have to get our boobs out at the latter (or the former, both of which would have been alarming to innocent bystanders).  We did, however, have to watch some videos of babies and their mothers trying to get the hang of breastfeeding, which I have to say did not make it look easy, unlike the patronising NHS video they show at the hospital where a smiling chav announces that she has now had the earth-shattering realisation that her "breasts are not for men."  On the plus side, we were told that it is basically safe to drink alcohol whilst breastfeeding.  I almost wept with joy.  Until I realised that being drunk in charge of a baby was extremely inadvisable and might lead to a visit from social services.

Speaking of which, my friends landed me with the enviable task of getting the drinks in for the baby shower yesterday.  This was of course pretty easy, as it required nothing more strenuous than a couple of trips to Tesco (several, as obviously needed huge quantity).  However I could tell that the cashier was eyeing me with disgust, obviously thinking that I was off to spend the afternoon merrily consuming  eight bottles of Budweiser, washed down with two bottles of white wine and a couple of bottles of Cava.  I had been thinking that I could evade suspicion by simply pretending not to be pregnant, and just looking like I had eaten a heavy lunch of pasta and bread (lining the stomach in preparation for the afternoon's drinking session), but apparently at eight months this is no longer the case, and I do in fact look like I am smuggling a whole other person under my dress which, of course, I literally am.  I also wasn't factoring in the fact that most of the visitors to my baby shower had decided to drive (should not have told them about the secret parking places) so were not drinking, and we were out of orange juice within minutes while most of the alcohol remained unopened and is still sitting in my fridge.  *DO NOT TELL SOCIAL SERVICES.*

In other fun news, we now have a sweepstake for the birth date and weight of the baby.  I also may have to de-friend the person who suggested five kilograms as the weight.  I was baffled by what this might mean in real terms as I can only cope with pounds and ounces when it comes to the weight of humans, but I suspect it was about two stone.  THANKS FOR THAT.  On a more supportive note, relatively few people had me down as destined for an extra-long pregnancy in the manner of an elephant, so I am thankful for small mercies.  I am also now the proud owner of a selection of babygrows that have been artistically "embellished" by my friends with such slogans as "my mum made me wear this," which will doubtless be the story of Little One's life until he is at least twenty-three and can finally break away from the (i.e. "my") maternal love of dressing your child as an animal in an attempt to educate him about what animals exist and how to recognise them.

Anyway, on that note I am off to eat some more of the leftover food from yesterday and gaze longingly at the leftover beverages.

Newsflash: Women's Breasts Apparently Not Designed For Men

Hallelujah!  Apparently the baby is "probably head down, although the head hasn't dropped into the pelvis yet."

Presumably this means he's already starting to gear up for birth.

Obviously do not want baby to be born immediately, but at least he isn't in a weird position.  At least not at the moment (probably shouldn't speak too soon).

So today I had another appointment with the consultant at the hospital, and the good news is, as long as everything continues to be fine, I won't need to see them again and can just continue to see the midwife.  Although they also told me to cancel tomorrow's appointment with the midwife as there's no point doing all the same tests two days running, so no lie-in for me, followed by a lovely breakfast at Pret A Manger and leisurely few hours off work tomorrow then, which had been pretty much what I had been looking forward to most this week, but instead I'll have to take solace in the fact that I missed an undoubtedly tedious meeting at work this afternoon instead.

Also, I feel I should report that there were fewer "how not to kill your baby" information videos on the hospital screens today.  Instead myself and the other pregnant whales (I swear I have never seen so many pregnant women in one room) were treated to such enlightening statements as "some people say your breasts are for men, but for me they are for feeding my child" from the breastfeeding information video.

Now I don't know if it's just that I am particularly highly educated (even if I do say so myself, thank you ladies and gentlemen, I'll take plaudits where I can) or if I have a particularly high degree of common sense, but it had not at any point occurred to me that the evolutionary purpose of my bosoms, such as they are, for I am not over-endowed in that area, are for any purpose other than feeding children.  I am not such a fool as to suppose that the highest point of all evolution is the ability to flaunt one's assets to the nation on Page 3 of the Sun, a newspaper I found lying around on the train on the way to work this morning and actually physically turned away and stopped myself picking up to read when I saw that it was that particular rag, and not, as I had at first assumed, a discarded copy of the Metro.  And yet the NHS must spend billions on this patronising claptrap.

Ironically, it was only last week that a good friend of mine, who has three children ranging in age from ten to seven months, told me that when she was breastfeeding her first child, she had been advised to wean at four months, and in the space of ten years that advice has somehow leapt up to at least six months.  Could it be that before long we regularly see eighteen year olds going off to university having one last tearful feed at their mother's breast before the final cutting of the apron strings?  My own mother was advised to stop breastfeeding me at three weeks, so it looks as though that could be the way things are going.  Or maybe we'll be caught in an eternal vicious cycle of Those In The Know constantly changing their minds and going right back to a policy of formula feeding for all.  Who knows?

Anyway, I'm off to practise my breathing again.  I thought I'd almost got the hang of it last night so hopefully by the time Little One decides to make an appearance I'll be a pro.