Walking through a shopping centre the other day I saw a Dad with a newborn baby tucked under his armpit. The baby was warm, safe, quiet and comfortable. He wasn’t being held in a sling, or cradled like a box of eggs. He was just hanging with his Dad. I felt like David Attenborough for a minute. Yes, we were bathed in the neon pink of HMV’s flickering signage, but it was lovely.
Most nights I get in the bath with the BUBs. Not every night, but most. Bath time without me getting in as well sounds like hard work. I need a lie down in amongst it.
It just seems so much easier to BE the seahorse or the giraffe or the cow than to foist it on the baby long enough to make it love it. Either that, or my children have serious attachment issues.
People used to say “When do you want to put the baby down?” or “What time does the baby usually go down?” or ” Does he go down easily?”. Down where I thought? Where is he going?
I didn’t know if I’d be a Gina Ford Mum, and feed my baby at set times and be told to break wind no later than 2.30pm while climbing the stairs, or whether I’d be a more go-with-the-flow kind of Mum
I have breastfed at the top of Centrepoint in Sydney, with 360 degree views of the city, on a very cramped semi-submersible boat on the Great Barrier Reef and on a pedalo in London’s glorious Regent’s Park. Choose your place wisely and everyone else will be too busy looking the other way.