Mr Jones thinks we should move to the Southern States of America so that Rufus grows up with an accent that will enable him to sing this song (you have to listen right to the end if you want to hear the kids singing - this will be enjoyable if you like country music - as I do - if you don't like country music you'll have to just grin and bear it. If like me you also have a thing for men in cowboy hats you may like to watch the video!). Mr Jones would probably like it noted that he isn't - in general - a country fan - he just thinks the kids at the end sound cute. I love country. I'd love to move to a Ranch and ride horses all day in a cowboy hat like I did in my previous life. I think about it a lot when all I can hear is a small boy grizzling. I could be the next Pioneer Woman and homeschool my kids and cook beef on a skillet and eat corn bread and cookies.....
Alternatively Mr Jones thinks we should move to Bristol so that Rufus will speak like the kids from Skins. Somehow I find this less appealing. Anyway I digress.
So you will remember how the Health Visitor wasn't concerned, no not concerned at all, about Rufus' weight. Well I took him back to be weighed again and he had put on a measly three ounces. "Hmmm - I'll just measure his head and length and get my thrive lines out to be sure, but I'm not concerned."
"Ok" says I not believing a word of it.
She measures his head - which is still big enough for me to be very thankful that I didn't have to push him out - and his length which is above average - something I could have told her because his three to six month babygros are all too short in the leg and he's only four and a bit months old.
She gets out her thrive lines (a piece of acetate covered in lines which apparently when laid over your baby's weight chart tells you whether or not he is thriving for his weight?!). All the while she is muttering about not being concerned, about how he is a gorgeous little boy and very alert and active and sleeping well......
She puts the acetate over Rufus' weight chart and traces a line with her finger up to where he should be on the chart for his age. The black dot on the weight chart is glaring at me in the bottom third of the page - her finger is resting in the top third. I suddenly feel a bit hot. It's cold out and I'm wearing layers and have a baby sling pinning them all to me. I feel the sweat start to trickle down my back as I watch her stare (now looking very concerned) at the chart.
Unnecessarily she points out the dots to me. "hhhhmmm I think I'll just call the doctor in to check him over, I'm not concerned because he looks well and his head is measuring fine and that's the next thing we check after slow weight gain, but just to be sure I'd like to call the doctor in - do you mind?"
Do I mind? What a ridiculous question - this woman is telling me that my baby may well be malnourished and she's asking me if I mind seeing the doctor? I reassure her that this is all quite fine - trying to ignore the sweat that is pouring down the backs of my knees while at the same time trying to wrestle Rufus back into his trousers.
The doctor appears, takes one look at him and says - "he looks fine to me." Meanwhile the health visitor has been ferreting about in her folder and pulls out another piece of acetate. "Oh" she says - "I've just realised that I'm using the wrong sheet - that's the one for babies who are gaining too much weight - see look he's fine!" She spends the next five minutes apologising to me while I begin to recover from what was possibly the beginnings of a mild cardiac episode - or less dramtically a few dark days believing that I am clearly a terrible mother who has been starving her child by feeding him from malfunctioning bosoms.
Further discussions ensue about the fact that Rufus clearly isn't actively feeding during these lovely 45 minute feeds we've been having. I am sent away with instructions to massage my boobs when I feed (delightful) and to start expressing in the evenings to make sure my milk supply is good enough. She also recommends that I see the breastfeeding counsellor for a bit more advice.
So off I go feel just slightly rattled and ever so much relieved. I begin the massaging (not easy) and I listen out to make sure he's swallowing all the time. We get fewer green poos which must have been caused by the fact that he was crashing out after he'd quenched his thirst with the foremilk. I start to feel encouraged.
I get out old Gina Ford's missives because I remember a section on increasing your milk supply. It appears that I need to express about five times a day - at specific times - while eating a small snack and drinking a glass of water. I am reminded of the panic I felt when I first read this book and it's routines - "your baby must be up and fully awake by 7am, offer 20 minutes from the first breast and 10 to 15 minutes from the second. Do not feed about 8am because you'll put him off his next feed. Eat a piece of toast and drink a pint of water no later than 8.30am......" When Mr Jones read it he sent me a text saying "errr can we send the baby back please - this sounds like a nightmare" - I was about 20 weeks pregnant at the time.
I duly start expressing per the timetable. This didn't last long. As I sat there in a roomful of other mums at 11am with my nipple being sucked in and out of a pump we all laughed at how our lives had changed. When would I ever have thought it was acceptable to get my boobs out in front of a room full of other women? And worse, when would I have ever sat there doing my best impression of a cow hooked up to an industrial strength milking machine - never! So I decided that my life was far too short. That Rufus could up my supply himself by taking more - because he clearly isn't starving because he is still gaining weight - just not as fast as he could.
On Tuesday I saw the breastfeeding counsellor. I didn't warm to her - she very kindly announced to a group of some 15 mums that she would speak to me after the weaning talk that we were all attending because she'd been informed that I was "having problems with breastfeeding" (see a mixture of sympathetic/smug looks fired in my direction from the various mothers in the room). She hardly listened to the problems I was having before barking "Feed him every two hours - that will make him gain weight and stop him biting you. I'll come and see you next Tuesday."
I leave, feeling flustered, trying to calculate in my mind how I'll get anything done if I feed him every two hours. Within about an hour I decide to ignore her. As far as I'm concerned he's fine, he's happy and alert, he's developing well, sleeping and napping well and seems to be perfectly jolly on his routine. He's never fed two hourly, not even when he was first born - so why would I go backwards? I've been keeping him awake during his feeds and the biting has lessened, we've had no green poos since I started with all the massaging and he's started to go through until 4.30/5ish at night again - so I think he's fine. It's not as if he's losing weight. Having made this decision I spend the next few days feeling very naughty. In the end I give myself a good talking to - I'm his mother and I know best. We shall see what she says next Tuesday.
PS - he's wearing his pjs in the pics because we had been through four outfits in one day - the first two were puked on and the second two were pooped on and I hadn't had chance to do anymore washing - pjs were all we had left.
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