For the last two weeks ever time we’ve attempted a bottle for Jasper he has responded in such a way that even I checked it wasn’t dogshit we had pureed and were trying to shovel down his throat.
This morning I woke up thinking, today, you are going to take a bottle. I didn’t communicate this to anyone except the New Recruit and even then only telepathically.
Because I’m inherently lazy and ignored my plan to express every night, this morning I woke in a pool of breastmilk. Nice. I can only imagine what good it is doing for my skin and am now working on how such leakage can be redirected to my face, neck and cleavage to ease the ravages of children.
So after he nearly drowned in the let down of Breast A I knew there’d be no takers for Breast B, so I expressed and got 220ml out of it. Yes, I am a cow. In disguise.
Then, after quality reading time with the Middle Child, I went for a lie down, because part of my laziness is not going to be before 11pm and I just don’t operate on less than 8 hours sleep without all manner of calls to DOCS being necessary.
So, Chef in his newly amazing and involved parenting (compared to when the boys were this age) just took to giving him a bottle – and from the milk I generated this morning. AND he even just heated up a little of it incase he rejected it again.
I heated up the rest and he.drank.all.of.it. Well, almost, about 200ml.
He seemed a bit surprised at the fuss we made about it after it was all over: