Ain't no dummy

My little baby is a genius. No, seriously, you don't understand. She's really clever. At least that's what I keep getting told, time after time after time, when I announce that she flat out refuses to take a dummy or the bottle.

The Tresillian nurses, bless them, tell me that Frankie is smart enough to reject cheap imitation nipples. Why would she want a poor substitute when the real thing is just so soft and delicious? Well, I guess there goes the 21st birthday present to Thailand to pick up a fake Mulberry bag. And I'd better not buy her any homebrand biscuits when she's in primary school or I might just get them thrown back in my face. And let's not even think about what she might do to me if I suggest we make a cup of instant coffee instead of venturing down to the local cafe for an organic, fair trade, Caffea Arabia blended espresso.

You see, I differ with the opinion of my doctors, nurses, and well-meaning friends and family because I don't see Frankie as demonstrating cleverness, but rather pickiness.  Would a clever baby not seek comfort from any object possible? Would a clever baby choose to limit her options to just one thing?

You could be forgiven for thinking that Frankie's refusal of all-things-artificial stems from bad parenting. Maybe I didn't try the best type of dummy? Maybe the conditions weren't perfect when I introduced the bottle? Maybe I just gave up too soon?

No, no and no again. I'm doing everything humanly possible (and within legal and reasonable limits I might add) to get this child well-aquainted with teats of all shapes and sizes. If Frankie would only give in a little she might just gain a lot. Wouldn't it be lovely to be fed by her dad or her grandma for a change? Wouldn't it be lovely if mummy could have a few hours to herself so that she could return a happier mummy? Oh, and wouldn't it be terrific to fall asleep in the pram or crib without a battle of wills with all those game enough to take on the challenge?

Each day brings with it a hilarious (and tedious) fighting match:
Frankie vs. Bottle, Round 1: the breastmilk is warmed to perfection, sugary and silky it lies waiting inside its plastic pool. The nozzle of the bottle is silicone (as predecessors of other types have failed miserably in the past). Frankie is cradled in the crook of her grandmother's arm; there is no temptation of a mother's swollen breasts to lure her away from the bottle in front of her. Grandma smiles and speaks with a voice as smooth as honey, enticing the child to drink. The bottle enters the baby's mouth, slowly and patiently. It teases her lips, and the baby looks up with confusion. What is this? Why is this happening? She opens her mouth wider - keen to explore. And suddenly, it dawns on the child. This is not a breast! What foreign beast dares to touch her sacred mouth, where only the true nipple should be? Frankie's body stiffens like an ironing board and she begins to thrash her head about. Puddles of spit fall into grandma's lap, as the child tries to flick the bottle out of her mouth, partly choking on her own wails in the meantime. Ding, ding, Round 1: Frankie. 
I won't even bother going into the next few rounds of the match. But guess who wins?

Come on, Frankie baby - a dummy and the bottle could actually be your new best friends. You just have to give it a chance! Any clever clogs knows that....