There’s something I’d like to get off my chest.
My son is bottle fed. Guilty as charged.
The great breast versus bottle debate was something like a tug of war in my head after William was born.
As a first time mum with no idea about this breastfeeding malarkey (aside from a quick practice with a breastfeeding co-ordinator and a scary looking stuffed doll which in no way resembled a wriggling, hungry newborn), I was relieved when the midwife at the hospital offered to show me the ropes.
I’d been determined to give birth as naturally as possible and the same went for feeding.
After all, it’s what your body has been designed to do. And there are so many health benefits for mum and baby.
Under the midwife’s careful guidance, I thought we’d cracked it as William lay content after his first feed.
Nothing though prepared me for how difficult it was going to become once at home with a baby screaming with hunger every hour through the night.
After some help from one of the Blackpool Community Star Buddies (a friendly breastfeeding network on hand for support) to get the right ‘latch’, it seemed we were back on track.
My cousin had warned me to “get a pint glass ready for when your milk comes in, it’ll be pouring out.”
Not quite... my pathetic trickle certainly didn’t seem to fill our little chap whose legs were starting to look like those funny tasting twig-shaped snacks.
And so after a week of trying and failing, a 5am breakdown with full on sobbing, we cracked and hit the bottle.
Breast may well be best (and I still wish it had worked out) but the relief of seeing William gulping milk down faster than you can say formula makes me feel better.