Bottle It

An update on our seemingly never ending quest to get our son bottle fed.

Me being the sole parent in Neds life for the majority of the weekend nowadays (Claire hasn’t left me – she has a weekend job. At least that’s what she’s told me) means there is no access to boobs. No access to boobs means our Sons normal method of feeding is absent.Normal method of feeding being absent means our son needs feeding another way.

Cue superdad and his dazzling array of bottles, slow release cups, fast release cups, sippy cups, tippy cups, keepy ups and chew activated cups – all of which don’t work (Keepy ups was a lie. It sounded funny at the time)

After the initial test period, we plumped for a standard bottle – mainly because he actually fed – TWICE – from it one Saturday, in a day I will now call ‘Success Saturday’ because of the day it happened, and that there was a success on it. Sadly, the next time previously mentioned standard bottle was presented to him, Ned knocked it out of my hand – I know it was by accident, but I could read between the lines. My son hated this bottle now, and I was a damn fool for trying to use it again.

Since Success Saturday, it has been pretty much the same – me trying to feed Ned with a bottle, and Ned, well, Not. That is until last Sunday.

During my weekends with Ned, I always go over my parents one of the days. Partly because they live 2 minutes from me, partly because we love hanging with them, and partly because I can lump my son and his short attention span on older adults with far more patience.

During a particularly spectacular feeding failure of a day, I decided to spring the ‘Chewy bottle’ on him while he was sat up in a box. the chewy bottle is simply a beaker with a rubber, chew activated teet. Ned simply chews it, and milk flies out. Sensing my worry, my Dad appeared to assist in the feeding process, propping Ned up from behind so he didn’t fall over because of his over enthusiastic chews.

It worked. Ned nearly finished the whole bottle. Logistically, however, the impracticallity of feeding him this way means I doubt I can replicate this in say, a restaurant – My Son, sat in a box. My Dad, lying down next to him propping up his back. Me, perched above him holding the bottle at an angle that made my soon look like a hamster drinking from a cage mounted water bottle.

I told Claire about this comedy of actions, to which she replied ‘Well, whatever gets him fed’ I stared blankly at her, in the style usually reserved for War Veterans whose terrifying stories of the horrors of war had just been met with lukewarm, uncaring reception by a disinterested 5 year old.

The box is in the airing cupboard, ready for next Sunday.

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