Paisley

So after Tilly's photoshoot (more later) and shipping off Dom to Osbrad's boysitting services (which he loved), we embarked on Operation 'Get Tilly to accept a bottle so that Helen can leave the house untroubled by the guilt of burdening the babysitter with a screaming, inconsolable infant' (Catchy, eh?) So after a last feed before Dr Who, we settled in for a long battle of nerves.

Some sixteen hours later, Matilda still hadn't backed down. Even Aunty Jobley's advice that all the best things come in bottles - Bacardi Breezers for instance - hadn't budged her and her bone dry nappies stood as testament to her little kidneys working overtime as they'd become convinced that Tilly was stranded in some milkless desert. Helen had nipped out to church, Jo was resignedly refreshing the Glastonbury tickets page and I was still offering the bottle to herself. All seemed very gloomy.

Then, within minutes of each other, Jo managed to get tickets for Glastonbury* and it suddenly dawned on Tilly that these bottles were full of lovely milk and gulped one down in almost a single draught. All was suddenly great. We I (quite reasonably, she won't take a bottle from Helen) stuck with the bottle for the rest of the day, and she more-or-less happily had another bottle last night even after a day of breastfeeding, so (touch wood) I think we may have cracked it.

Postscript: so Helen went out to practise with the choir tonight leaving me Tillysitting. After I'd come back down from putting Dom to bed she was whinging a little bit so I gave her a cuddle. She promptly fell asleep and has remained soundly so for the three hours until Helen's return. The little minx.

*At time of writing, they've yet to take the money from my account so we're not quite home and dry yet, which is causing me no little anxiety at the moment.