Holy mother of crapping god.
So, Lumpy didn't do a poo yesterday. OK, this has happened before. Once. In his entire life. So I tend to freak out just a little bit whenever the usual flood of mustardy bottom goodness fails to appear in the nappy. Because that is what I am like.
This usual raving hysteria was made all the more acute by the fact that the Lumpster has been enthusiastically vomiting after almost every feed recently. He often does this stealthily, purging himself in silence all down my back, leaving me to wander around for the rest of the day with baby sick smeared all over my clothes. Since most of my time is spent in Cowley Centre, this doesn't actually matter, as entering that fine shopping emporium without vomit-encrusted clothes is strictly prohibited.
Anyway, this vomiting had finally pushed me so far that I actually went and visited the hospital's breastfeeding clinic. This shows how desperate I had become, as I am idiotically stubborn and obviously the best person in the universe at breastfeeding (and everything else), and therefore don't need any help or advice, thank you very much. I'll just sit here while my child regurgitates more milk than his stomach can possibly hold over my entire body in all its cottage-cheesy glory. That's what he's meant to do, right? So I'll sit here humming merrily to myself for two, three weeks, becoming increasingly covered in milky vom, not even wiping it off because that would be admitting that something not quite right was happening. La la laaaa, I can't hear you, vombag.
In other words, I am a silly cow. Moo moo moooooo (no, I'm not giving birth again, don't panic. At least I don't think I am. But who knows, frankly. I'll keep you posted.). But after a period of great personal struggle, I managed to overcome this innate bovinity, and took myself and my amazing puking child down to the hospital. I did feel a bit stupid, lugging my hulking great multiple-chinned beast of a baby into the clinic, which was mostly filled with desperate brand-new mothers with squalling teeny newborns and scabby nipples. Despite this, the assistants were very welcoming and assured me that Lumpy was not the oldest or fattest baby they'd ever seen, informing me that one 'baby' had climbed off their mother's lap and spanked an assistant on the bottom, because they took exception to her trying to see what was going on with the feeding. This little anecdote was obviously meant to be reassuring, but was actually fairly disturbing. I mean, if the 'child' was old enough to climb off its mother's lap and administer a spanking to a stranger, then you'd think they'd have been breastfeeding for long enough to have got the hang of it. Or to know when it's time to quit, frankly. I actually suspect that the 'baby' in question was really a middle aged pervert merely posing as a nursing child. But we'll draw a veil over that intriguing possibility, for now at least.
I started feeding while one of the assistants watched (actually, the place is a veritable heaven for perverts. It's a wonder they're not overrun with them). You're supposed to do this exactly as you normally would, but I kept second guessing what I thought they'd criticize me about and subsequently changing my technique, till I ended up dangling Lumpy by his ankles above my head, and whirling him around as he snapped desperately at my elusive boob.
Despite my best -- or, rather, worst -- efforts, they didn't immediately repossess Lumpy to give him to someone more skilled and deserving. In fact, they actually seemed to think I was doing okay, and just needed to make a couple of small adjustments, and perhaps chill the fuck out a little bit. No! Really? What a concept.
So I headed back home, suitably reassured, and then proceeded to spend the whole day panicking about the fact that Lumpy hadn't done a poo! OMFG, no poooooooo! What will we dooooooo?!!111!!
I immediately assumed that this lack of pooage was due to my feeding technique, and that he was clearly starving to death, because of course! I am a terrible mother, etc. etc. etc. Begin foaming at the mouth and rolling around on the floor moaning and weeping until Mr Badger comes home and throws you in the bath.
And then he did a poo. It was the right colour, and texture and everything. I got up off the floor, and started breathing normally again. Hurrah for poo.
And then he did another one. And I swear to the almighty god of poos, it was the biggest poo that has ever emerged from a baby, ever. It was so astonishing in its lavishness and volume that I had to take the nappy, throw it into the shower, and hose it into submission before it got any thoughts of taking over the world.
So I thought you'd like to know. I saved you all from almost certain death by poo. Thank you gifts may be sent to the usual address. Now off you go, and enjoy your delicious dinner.