Daughter arrived two weeks early, and was a little on the small side, we spent five days on the Transitional Care Ward. Our goal was to establish successful breastfeeding; then and only then, would we be allowed home.
It was hard work. For two days, Daughter was sleepy, and had to be fed hand-expressed collostrum by syringe. This, in turn, led to two days of laziness and temper tantrums when dinner didn’t flow on tap. She would suck her hands and smack her lips, but seemed unable to link this to my burgeoning milk supply. The midwives described her as a “little madam,” while I nicknamed her “Mary, Mary, quite contrary”.
The electric breast pump became my best friend, its suction rhythms falling some way short of sparkling conversation, especially at 3am. As Daughter feasted on bottles of Mummy’s Gold Top, she must have congratulated herself on finding the simplest meal ticket going. Read the entire post here.
Before having my own baby, the last time I changed a nappy was on a two-year-old. It was, to a degree, fun. Little Arthur wasn’t remotely fazed; it could even be entertaining, when I blew raspberries on his tummy.
Fast forward 20 years to new motherhood. No one ever told me that removing a newborn’s nappy was akin to murder. Daughter screams the house down, and kicks harder than the England football team. Them, to wreak her revenge, she waits until the nappy is off before peeing a perfect arc across the bathroom carpet, soaking anything in its trajectory (tip – wriggle at the same time to ensure maximum coverage).
Nappies have changed a lot since our parents were nippers. If anything, they have come full circle. My gran claims with fondness that “nothing looks nicer than a line of snowy white terries drying in the sunshine”. Contrast this view with that of my teenage cousin, raised on disposables: “Gross! Some things are not meant to be reused, and that includes nappies.” Read the entire post here