The bottle feeding has been a disaster. There is no other way to describe it. Firstly the actual expressing looks like something out of a beastiality porno. I sit on the sofa with an electric pump attached to my boob, which in turn is attached to a baby bottle, and watch it fill up as the machine makes a kind of 'mooo mooo' noise, almost to emphasis you're being milked. I read on a forum that babies can smell their mother and their milk up to 20 feet away, which I find astounding.
Anyway, the idea was that I would leave the house while Ben attempted to feed her, for, as a friend explained 'why would you eat an apple when you know you've got a chocolate mousse in the fridge?' So I left the room they were both in and then realised that my shoes were still in there, so had to wear my allotmenting shoes along with the Bet Lynch leopard print coat, which, under normal circs I think looks quite cool, but teamed up with my footwear made me look a bit like I should have a shopping trolley filled with all my worldly possessions. And off down London Road I went to lurk for an hour.
I felt so lost without Nancy, I didn't know what to do with myself, and the thought of her feeding from anyone other than me made my boobs double lactate, so the only sensible thing to do seemed to be to burst into tears. And when I spoke to Ben on the phone I could hear her crying in the background, she sounded so distressed I just couldn't cope. It seemed like such a good idea, but the reality is that if it's going to be this awful for everyone then maybe it's best if we just don't go out in the evenings. Until she's older. Much older. Possibly when she's feeding herself.
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