Top 5 essentials (1-3 months)

This is our personal Top-5 things-we-couldn’t-live-without.  As Fig gets older, no doubt this list will change, but for the last however-many weeks, these have been, and are, our daily essentials:

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Who does your baby look up to?

When you’re lying in a cot – take yourself back to babyhood here – and looking up at a mobile, would you rather see a series of faces smiling down at you, or the bums and feet of various child-friendly creatures?  Personally, I’ve always preferred faces to bums (although many may argue that in Brad Pitt’s case, it’s a close run thing). My point is, why do the makers of mobiles have the faces smile at the walls, or mummy and daddy, or even the ceiling, but never at the baby?

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Bath Gallery

Buying Christmas presents for a seven week old is pretty pointless, but we did it, because he’s our little boy and the thought of his not having anything under the tree from his mummy and daddy just felt awful! We didn’t spend much, but one of the little things we bought him was bath crayons. This isn’t because we expect him to be able to draw with them, but so that we can draw on the side of the bath for him: we’d noticed that as he’s so little (he’s a baby an’ all that) he can’t see anything outside of the bath, and the sides of a bathtub are not exactly the most inspiring visual stimulus.

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The Big Question: Breast or Bottle?

Like most pregnant women, I wanted to breastfeed.  And I guess I thought I just would.  I’d read that it was hard, and that not every woman could do it, but I still thought I would, that I could.

When he was born, Fig was placed on me and fed for the first time.  It seemed successful for a first attempt.  But from then on, even though he latched on fine and all the midwives said we were both doing it perfectly, Fig would pull away and scream after just a few seconds of feeding.  We tried for three days, by which time the midwives were having to cup-feed him between my increasingly futile attempts to breastfeed.  Perhaps I wasn’t producing enough colostrum for him, they wondered.  They put me on the milking machine (officially called the breastpump, but it was of such industrial magnitude, it made me feel far more bovine than the ones you get for use at home!), which hurt so much that I was by this time in tears.

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