I was feeling sentimental as I mixed up Teddy’s first bottle of formula this week. ‘My baby,’ I thought sadly. ‘No more breastfeeding with my tiny, gentle little boy…’ and then the thoughts trailed off as I watched him bite into that plastic nipple, chewing and worrying it like a Labrador with a rubber chicken. Funny, my nostalgia just melted away.
At nine months, he is getting very strong and wriggly, and with four teeth up top, and two below, he’s developing a fine pincer grip. Breastfeeding is becoming less like an intimate, sweet symbiosis between mother and child, and more like the early scenes of a horror movie. I know I’m going to scream, but I just don’t know when.
He eats everything I put in front of him. The Italians would call him 'a good fork.' I know he's getting enough nutrition without needing breast milk so much now.
Say it isn't so.