I’d like to show you a poor quality, slightly dark picture today, one that should inspire anyone struggling to bottle feed babies who are used to boobs.
Now to anyone who doesn’t know me or my son, this could be looked upon as your bog standard ‘upload to facebook’ type image that would get a few ‘ahhs’, a few likes, and nothing else.
But to anyone that does know me, or my son (how you’d know my son and not me is something we may need to talk about later, preferably with the police in earshot) knows that this picture is more that just a picture – it’s a picture that represents WIN on every possible account – and yes, I know I’ve said the word ‘picture’ too much. I’ll stop now.
Picture this, your’e a baby, you’ve just been born. Within hours, a boob is thrust into your mouth and you discover that this is how you get food. To you, that’s absolutely fine, you might refuse it from time to time, you might be angry with it on occasion, but you’ll always go back to it – it’s your breakfast, lunch and dinner, it is the thing that keeps you busy, the thing that gets you sleeping, and the thing that makes sure mummy and daddy learn how to change a nappy.
Now, fast forward 6 months. You’re hungry, you eagerly eye up your mothers chest – something that you’ll hopefully grow out of by the time you hit puberty – but suddenly, unexpectedly, daddy takes you to another room.
‘Ok’ you think ‘strange, but fair enough, this guys not too bad, he’s entertaining. I’ll hang with him for a bit’
Then another twist in the routine – a poor imitation of a boob gets put in your mouth. it feels different – for a start, it’s see-through. You chew it, a bit of food comes out and you think ‘What the hell?! I am not going to put up with this!’
And you fuss, you cry, you gouge daddys nose with those cute little talons of yours until you get your way, like the little prince you are.
The above story has basically been our weekends for the past two months – with me attempting to bottle feed Ned, and him attempting to not be bottle fed.
Last saturday, Claire was working, so I was on parenting duty looking after our son – meaning we went over my parents to ensure I had some backup.
Claire was working long hours, which meant that at some point, Ned would simply have to feed – something that filled me with dread, based off past attempts.
Eventually, the time came to feed. I cradled him in my arms, sat down, and popped the bottle in. He fussed, strained, chewed and batted the bottle away. Before I resigned myself to the possibility my wife would be coming home to a starving, pissed off son, I tried one more method.
Lifting him in my arms, I walked him around the house, letting him look around. All the while, I kept the bottle in his mouth, following his head as he viewed the sights and sounds of his grandparents house. Amazingly, it worked. He drained the bottle dry and fell asleep.
Later in the day, I used the same method with just as much success draining another bottle. Two wins, flawless victory.
The only downside is my son is a little on the husky side, and carrying an almost two stone child around like that for a 40 minute feed was a test on the arms, but seeing his chubbly little content face, milk dribbling down his chin, asleep – well, it made it all worthwhile.
He didn’t poo all day though, I think it must have been the shock of change.