It never ceases to amaze me how much of my day is taken up thinking about food. Whether it’s the food that’s going in my mouth (Have I had enough calcium?), the food I’m cooking for Number One (Is this the right amount of food an eight year old should eat?) or the amount of milk I manage to get down Number Two (How can you really tell when it’s coming out of breasts?); it seems the topic is rarely out of my mind. And well, you guys already know how much I think about cake!
Number Two however seems not to share my (or for that matter his sister’s) obsession with food. He eats it seems because he has to rather than wants to. His dummy is by far preferable to my boobs, and whilst an empty bottle is perfectly acceptable, put milk in one and it’s a whole other story indeed. Putting weight on (a problem I most certainly don’t have) is therefore quite a mission for him. We dream feed lots, milk whilst sleeping it seems is infinitely more acceptable than when awake, and we also do the milk dance (which basically consists of me swaying around the living room with him attached to my breast) as the movement it seems makes it easier for him to feed. (At least I live in the countryside, so the escapade is only visible to the sheep in the field next door.)
At the last weigh in we managed 2oz in three weeks, cue panicked mummy, panicked health visitor and totally oblivious and unhungry Number Two. Two weeks and very little sleep later (partly due to crazy amounts of dream feeding and partly due to worry) we’ve managed another 8oz. Cue, me doing the happy dance round the clinic. Oh well, you guys know I’m nuts the health visitor may as well know it too.
So now I just need to keep up the regime, good job Number One trained me to live without sleep…