Monday 12 March 2012

One Baby. One Bottle. One trip to Bali.

Hallelujah! Praise Be! Hot Diggity Dog! Frankie's on the bottle.

After nearly six months of trying every bottle, every teat, and every trick known to man (well, known to woman) Frankie has finally backed down and has taken to the bottle. What exactly does this mean? It means FREEDOM dear readers. Freedom!

Sure, it's a bit late in the day for her to start venturing from the breast, given that the weaning process is about to begin anyway. (FYI, how the heck does one start that process? That's another blog in its own right, me-thinks). But when her little mouth wrapped itself around that bottle I didn't care that it had taken her 154 days to manage this small feat - all I cared about was that she had managed it. And even better, was thoroughly enjoying herself!

Selfishly, I did a silent high-five with the Gods above because I was getting desperate. I have a trip to Bali planned on my Jack Jones for my best friend's wedding, and as each day took me one step closer to that July holiday I started panicking that I would be leaving my darling daughter to starve. Miss her though I undoubtedly will, perhaps agonisingly so, I still want this time away to myself. I have six months of interrupted sleep to catch up on.

"Oh", I hear you cry "Poor little diddums. Finding motherhood a bit tough are we?"  I know what you're thinking and I truly shouldn't complain about it. There was a time in evolution when bottles didn't exist, it is true. And people coped. But let me tell you HOW they coped. Women would share their babies around and let other mother's feed their children so that they could get a bit of shut-eye. Don't believe me? What do you think still happens in African villages? It's natural. It's evolution's way of making sure our bubs don't starve, and that Mother's are fit, strong and well-rested enough to get back in the fields and harvest dinner for the village. True true. Don't judge me until you've walked a mile in my flip flops.

Frankie has done me a huge favour and I could (and will do repeatedly) kiss her for it. She's now happy for Daddy to give her a feed. Or grandma. Or Mr. Smith up the road. Or Fifi the cat. She really doesn't care. Just so long as she gets her precious milk.

I now look forward to my best friend's wedding in  Bali without any guilt weighing me down. Missing Frankie will be punishment enough for me leaving her; but she will be in the loving hands of her father so I can rest easily at night. And rest I will.

For at least 10 hours in a row.

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