Sunday 10 January 2010

The plebs

Having endured nearly a month of being bitten during feeds, and then being laughed at when I yell out in pain, I reluctantly offered Dolly some follow-on milk a couple of days ago. Just the mere sight of the bottle full of milk made her almost hyper-ventilate with excitement. She grabbed the bottle from me and knocked it back in about 5 seconds flat. Despite this, I am still trying to hang on to the morning and bedtime feeds for dear life, reasoning that once her top teeth are through, this would probably be the time to admit defeat completely.

It is much the same with food. I take great pride in lovingly preparing good, organic, wholesome food for my girls, but Dolly will often turn her little nose up my culinary delights. And when, in desperation, I offer her a jar of chicken risotto, or spaghetti bolognese (or whatever, they all taste the same to me) she does her shrill Michael Jackson 'OOWW' impression and shovels it in with gusto.

So it seems I have a pleb baby on my hands, a baby who prefers the shop-bought processed option to the home-produced real thing. If I can salvage anything from this it's that one day she might be up for joining me in my occasional Frey Bentos pie and chips fests on a Saturday night in front of trash TV, whilst Tom and Betty are off somewhere eating smoked pumpkin seeds and discussing Fermat's last theorem.