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.

How to avoid using dangerous substances such as Calpol

So I am trying to write this while Piglet naps on my chest (look at me!  Multi-tasking uber-mother!)

He had his first set of immunisations this morning.  This was relatively stress free.  Apparently some women are so distressed by the sight of a huge (relative to size of baby) needle being stuck in their baby's thigh that they cannot do the required job of holding baby down while the pain is inflicted and have to get their husbands to do it.

Not so with me.  Not that I have a husband anyway so I didn't have much choice.  To be honest, I did feel a bit sorry for Piglet as he screamed, looking at me with imploring eyes, as if pleading with Mummy to make it all better, which I obviously had no intention of doing.  Poor Piglet.  He doesn't know that now, because of Mummy's cruelty, he will probably not die of whooping cough, diphtheria or any of the other Victorian ailments he is now inoculated against.

He might get TB though.  At least that was what the nurse implied when she asked if he had had his BCG vaccination and I innocently said I was under the impression he didn't need one.  Apparently we are in a "high risk area."  I'd better not take him to any public places just in case someone breathes TB onto him.  Can you even get TB by being breathed on?  I don't know.  How did that nun in Call the Midwife get it?  I guess it was just floating around in the air in the 1950s.

Another reason I was practically drummed out of the surgery was that I admitted that I hadn't brought any spare nappies so Piglet would have to be weighed in his.  I wasn't sure which would make me look less of a neglectful mother; Piglet remaining in his nappy throughout, or taking off said wet nappy and then putting it back on.  I decided that the latter was just too cruel, which did not go down at all well with the nurse, who practically accused me of deliberately hiding my baby's lack of weight gain.  I mean, how much does a wet nappy weigh?  Quite a lot, admittedly, but certainly not enough to have Piglet slipping off the percentile scale entirely.  I mean, there wasn't even any poo in it.

Anyway, I am now trying to ward off the need for Calpol (recommended by every mother, ever, and indeed everyone who has ever even spoken to a mother, for preventing babies getting a fever after their vaccinations) by cuddling Piglet constantly and trying to keep him asleep for as long as possible, as the nurse also admonished me rather sternly when I, again in my innocence, asked if it would be OK to give Piglet Calpol if he developed any signs of a fever, saying that Calpol was not suitable for babies of his youth.  God, parenting is a minefield.

Hopefully I was able to ward off a call to social services by breastfeeding Piglet immediately after the jabs.  Surely that will win me some points the amount everyone bangs on about how great it is and how it should be done exclusively until the child is at least sixteen.

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.