Our Baby Is Not A Horse

I don’t think that our baby has colic. I think if she did we would know all about it. She is definitely more windy; sometimes I wake up in the morning to hear her bum happily phootling away like an old tank engine coming up to steam, but she is bright and chirpy as long as she is on the breast milk.

The crying seems to have been the formula milk. Her wee stomach just isn’t used to it. It’s not even gulping air from the bottle, she has happily been drinking breast milk both from bottle and boob all along with no ill effects. She hasn’t had any formula since Hogmanay and she hasn’t done the inconsolable crying thing since.

Lucky us, eh?

Happy New Year

I woke up this morning with that usual guilt and furry mouth that welcomes each new year. Ah, the future. I was wondering when it was going to get here.

Last night Lynne was playing a gig while I stayed in with the baby. I was equipped with formula milk and Infacol. I watched the BBC Hogmanay diddly-dee programme. I couldn’t hear it because the baby screamed pretty much constantly from 7pm to within a half hour of the bells. Doctor P came around with a couple of beers, but he quickly moved onto the port and fell asleep. I was glad he was there though; you can’t really strangle your child if someone else is watching. I even deployed the Paul Simon to no avail. After trying everything I could think of, including just ignoring her and staring dully into space, I finally managed to calm her down by holding her face down along my arm with her head hanging over my elbow, joggling her up and down and rubbing her tummy. Ten minutes of this treatment was enough to release an explosive series of farts, after which she fell asleep.

At midnight she woke up, bright and cheery, as if nothing had happened. But I won’t forget. I’m going to save it up for the wedding speech.