The Old Booby Question

Bringing Back the Boobies!

Disclaimer... if you are a) a squeamish male, b) a female who would like to breastfeed one day or c) anyone I have ever taught, you may not want to read this post!

I have reclaimed my boobs. Yes, that is right, after 10 months of breastfeeding I (and my child) decided enough was enough. And now that I am finished, there are so many wonderful things I can do with my new and (not very) improved breasts; I can give myself a round of applause with them if I run up stairs (but not too fast or I give myself two black eyes); I no longer need a pencil case for my stationary; and if ever I need to defend myself I can use them as a form of fleshly nun-chucks.

Despite all this, there is a lot of smugness involved in breastfeeding and after having now done my fair share, I can see why. First up, it isn’t the easiest. I expected to just pop the baby on and nurture her to her hearts content. I thought maybe I could do it whist carrying her in a sling, so that I could load the dishwasher and breastfeed, or maybe, hoover, read a book and breastfeed or even enjoy a latte, on the run, while catching the bus and generally gadding about town, while breastfeeding. How wrong I was... It took me about 9 weeks just to be able to give Little what she needed to keep her going, and another few weeks after that before I could do it comfortably without involving about 16 cushions. So when you do finally master it, yes, I can see why you might feel smug.

I suppose the whole ‘Best for Baby’ thing makes us breastfeeders feel pretty pleased with ourselves too. That is until the government, or the NHS, or a bunch of scientists come along and tell you that maybe, just maybe, it ain’t best for baby and that some babies might need something different. What, you mean to tell me each individual baby is different and has different needs? Shock horror! Don’t get me started on that one.

So I guess what I think I have learned over these many months of breastfeeding is that I am a closet bottle feeder. Despite the fact that I didn’t choose formula, I fervently want to defend the rights of women to choose. Some women can’t breastfeed, and some women don’t want to - and who am I to suggest that they should? The best thing about being a woman in the new millennium is having the right to choose; to choose whether or not to have kids, to choose whether or not to go back to work; to choose whether or not to marry; so why not have the right to a choice on this one too?

Mummatron

Back in the Day

Ah, the old breast is best issue, how nice to see that some things about the world of babies never change!

When I had my first baby back in 1976 we were given an information booklet at our first Antenatal class. Antenatal classes were similar to NCT classes, but they were spread over quite a few weeks, were very instructive and they were absolutely free! We were taught about the birth, our part in the production (‘scuse the pun), how to relax (not much use during labour but great for when dealing with a two year old tantrum) and about how to care for the baby once we were ‘home alone’. But I digress so back to the leaflet: there was a section on feeding, and to be fair, it explained about both bottle and breast-feeding.

The breast-feeding pages showed a beautiful coloured picture of a slim young woman with long blonde hair wearing an elegant white frock. She was sitting in an antique rocking chair breast-feeding her baby next to an open French window through which you could glimpse a perfect garden of rolling lawns and gently wafting willow trees. Aaah.

Turn the page to find out about bottle feeding; the picture is in stark black and white and depicts a fat old hag of a woman with her greasy hair only partly covered by a turban, she is sitting on a hard wooden kitchen chair surrounded by the debris of several meals and her floral overalls are grubby with nicotine stains. She holds the baby with one hand whilst using her free hand to tap the ash off her ciggie before shoving a dirty looking bottle into the poor little waifs’ mouth. Well, I may exaggerate a little but you get the idea ……..

So even back in 1976, no pressure about breast-feeding then……………..

I think it has always been a contentious issue which not only veers madly from one fashion to another but has always been a ‘class’ issue. I was a little bit hippy in my day and so knew without a doubt that there was only breast-feeding for me (oh yes, and, I nearly forgot, the baby too). The trouble was my baby had ideas of his own, and believe me, however hard I tried that baby would not take the breast. I struggled, he struggled, we all struggled until, one day, presented with a vaguely yellow, slightly jaundiced unhappy little baby I gave in and offered him a bottle. Reader, he didn’t just drink, he guzzled! He relaxed, I relaxed, we all relaxed.

Another Life lesson learnt – thank you baby.

Granny Bloggings

Week 17: Home alone

Time Out

I am in need of a holiday. Not the old kind of holiday I use to take - no snowboarding, no white water rafting, no traipsing round beautiful cities for days on end looking at every vestry in every church. No. I am putting my foot down. The kind of holiday I need is all inclusive, sun, sea, sand and snoozing. And baby free.
I love her, don’t get me wrong but I just need some time off. Unfortunately, while CK is (incredibly) intelligent (and beautiful and kind and considerate), she doesn’t read my blog and so will not get the message that mummy needs a break.

Some of my friends say to me, just go for it, leave her at home and have some time off. And that is all very well. If you are bottle feeding. But being able to take a holiday means taking my boobs with me and that ain’t gonna cut it for CK. It turns out she can’t sleep without them. (I can hear my health visitor in the back of my head tut tutting and muttering something about accidental parenting) For some reason she (CK, not my health visitor) has a fascination at the moment with my skin and is not happy unless she is love biting me, licking me, rubbing her snotty wee nose on some part of me. Who knows what that is about? Answers on a postcard please...

Not only that, but there is this weird emotional ambiguity in my head. On one hand I JUST NEED SOME TIME OFF, but on the other, there is the fact that even when I am away, I can’t seem to switch off. I have to know about every nap, poo and feed in order to be happy. Control freak much? I want to go away from her, but I don’t want to, too. Weirdo. She fills my heart and makes me smile - why would I want to leave that at home?

Ask me again at 4.30 this morning.

So for now, I will content myself with holiday programmes on the TV, dreaming of far flung climes, and the occasional day off (thanks Granny Bloggings!).
Mummatron


Codgers in Charge
The other week my daughter had a birthday and my lovely son in law organized a whole weekend of treats for her. The Saturday involved a whole day in London, taking in a matinee performance of the Lion King. Of course, this was only possible if the CODGERS – Ck’s Old Doting Grandparents Energetic Rescue Service - would be drafted in to look after the baby – would we? WOULD WE! Yes Please.

So on the Saturday morning off they went leaving the baby in her cot for her morning nap and Granny Bloggins and Gramps in charge. Did we rush around doing chores, cleaning, cooking? No, we did not. We made coffee, we did our emails and we read our books – we do remember some things about looking after an eight month old and taking a rest when possible is even more important for us now than it was way back in the mists of our child bearing times.

As you can imagine, all day the texts flew back and forth between Oxford and London – well initially from the road between Oxford and London, then from London then from various roads, cafes, restaurants and theatres around London. Luckily we were able to repeatedly report – ‘all’s well’ – until eventually when a text came saying; ‘everything OK?’ we just texted back – ‘yes’. After all we were a too busy playing with the baby to stop and text – don’t forget it does take us about five minutes per word!

Little CK seemed to enjoy all the attention of her very own Olds. We danced, we sang, we made silly faces, we played peekaboo, we cuddled, we kissed and spent what seemed like hours rolling a ball between us past CK which seemed to amuse her no end. We even had a few moments of fun with a cardboard box!

All went well until bedtime loomed when CK suddenly decided that enough was enough and where were her mummy and daddy? Or perhaps more importantly, where was her mummys’ chest? Her little face crumpled into seldom seen tears and even a spell on the sofa right in front of Strictly Come Dancing didn’t seem to help. Although I must be honest here and say the dancing held her entranced, one adorable cubby little hand on Grannys’ face, and her eyes riveted to the swirling colours. She liked Pamela, She LOVED Matt, but whenever Brucey came on the screen she started to sob – yes, I know he has that effect on most of us.

So, into the snow -suit, into the cosy -toes, into the pram, and off out into the dark of the early evening Gramps and CK went. No sooner had they turned the corner at the end of the road when the cavalry arrived in the form of mummy and daddy and mummys’ chest. You should have seen that baby beam to be back in their arms!

Granny and Gramps managed to stay awake long enough to hear about the day in London. By nine thirty we were tucked snuggly up in bed and by ten we were fast asleep, and we slept for ten hours! As I keep saying, this baby rearing is only for the young! Who are these mad old women who want a baby when they have been drawing their old age pension for years – very rich ones who can afford a nurse, nanny, housekeeper, cook and bottle washer I reckon!

Granny Bloggins