What made me spit out my cornflakes this morning? #KBBF13

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No it wasn’t that I accidentally sat on the remote control and discovered my mum and dad having a row in Jeremy Kyle’s green room. It was the utterly ridiculous study that was somehow granted 5 minutes worth of sofa-time on BBC Breakfast this morning; a study that has apparently revealed that breastfed babies have a better chance of upward class mobility in later life.

Before I get verbally battered by breastfeeder’s, it’s worth pointing out that I’m pro-choice. I breastfed Dexter for almost 2 months before Strep B landed him in hospital, and stress meant I could not express enough to exclusively sustain him. Had Dexter not experienced these problems, I like to think I would have carried on. Certainly with baby 2 I’ll be whipping out the 36GG’s and saving on extortionate formula prices. As studies have suggested this can be a way of losing the baby weight, I’m fully onboard! But this ridiculous segment this morning got on my nerves.

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I’ve written before about ethical health reporting and spurious research. It’s a pet hate of mine to turn on my TV (especially to BBC) to discover so-called health experts making outlandish claims and making a mockery out of serious debates. The sound-byte culture we live in means that sexy health-related headlines end up getting precious air-time, and it doesn’t matter if they are supported by empirical evidence or not. If it sounds shocking and supports a wider NHS agenda, let’s run with it.

It doesn’t matter that I haven’t graduated from Cambridge with a degree in breastfeeding, I’m quite prepared to say that this report is utter nonsense.

I was pleased to see that Bill Turnbull and Louise Minchin greeted this woman (Amanda Sacker, University College London) and her shoddy report with just as much scepticism as I did. Louise’s questions were loaded with apprehension and she asked the same questions I would have asked (with just a little more restraint than I’d have mustered) - “What about mother’s who express?“, “Or mother’s that have breastfed one, yet not another child?“. It was these arguments that quickly saw the ‘expert’ backtrack and insist that other factors would balance out the discrepancy. If this doesn’t reveal just how woefully shallow her argument is, I don’t know what does!

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It seems to me (and hopefully any other rational human being) that children who grow into successful adults and manage to improve upon the social standing of their parents, are a product of several different factors. Baseline class would of course be one; it surely depends on which ‘class’ (sigh) your parents fall into, that will determine how minor or huge the next step up will be. Location, the strength of the family unit, family finances, childhood experiences… there are just so many factors that come into play beyond-the-breast.

The ‘expert’ explained her study in scant detail as though even she was embarrassed and wanted to skirt over its lack of credibility. She stated that she followed two groups of women - group 1 exclusively breastfed their babies, group 2 did not. No mention was made of the size and location of these groups*, and no statistical evidence was proffered to support the claim. The Daily Telegraph also appears to have lent the unconvincing Amanda Sacker some credence, but even these stats fail to convince me there is anything worth investigating further.

The research paper, published in the British Medical Journal, uses information from long-running studies of the lives of two groups of around 17,000 people: one set born in a single week in 1958 and another born during a single week in 1970.

They were each assigned to one of four nominal social classes based on their father’s job when they were 10 or 11 – ranging from “unskilled” to “professional”. They were then reassigned based on their own line of work when they were 33 or 34.

The study, the first study of its kind, found that overall those who had been breastfed were 24 per cent more likely to move up a class between childhood and their early 30s.

Some also dropped to a “lower” class but those who were breastfed were 20 per cent less likely to have done so than those who weren’t. DAILY TELEGRAPH

It amazes me that this supposedly well-qualified and intelligent woman (who is no doubt funded by Government and our cash-strapped NHS) is prepared to perpetuate such a weak claim. It cheapens a very valid argument for breastfeeding, and heaps new anxiety on bottlefeeders everywhere. Let’s try to stick to the facts in future please BBC.

To see more reaction, head on over to BBC Breakfast’s Facebook page.

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* Robert Winston went on to explain in a later segment that some 34,000 women were involved. Curiously he backs and welcomes the study and refers to the habits of rodents (exclusively breastfed animals) to prove that breastfeeding helps with cognitive ability and brain development. Although I can’t for the life of me see why rodents are significant in this assertion, I don’t disagree that breastfeeding offers a wealth of health benefits. Quite why any of these would have any influence at all on a child’s sociability and class is beyond me.


How Dexter Ruined Our House Inspection

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Today has been one of the toughest and most emotionally-demanding days I’ve had as Dexter’s mummy. I love my little rascal to death but boy did he step up the pressure this afternoon! I’ve already dragged his Moses basket from the loft, cut up a newspaper and got handy with the Pritt Stick, and am seconds away from leaving Dexter on a neighbours doorstep.

A bit of context…

We live in a rented house and spent the weekend decluttering in lieu of a house inspection by our letting agents. We don’t live in a hovel by any stretch of the imagination, but used the upcoming inspection to get rid of some of some baby bits we no longer need. Walking downstairs this morning our home looked lovely. All Dexie’s toys were stowed away, our real oak floors were buffed, the lounge smelt of Mr Pledge, and the books in the bookshelf were arranged in size order. With a smug smile, I set about feeding my monkey before the agent arrived.

Breakfast out of the way, I popped Dexter on the sofa, fired up an episode of Sooty and Friends, and left him snuggled up thumb-in-mouth to watch it quietly. My single goal was to protect my lounge from Dexter until the inspection was through. With all going to plan, I grabbed the laptop and made myself comfortable on an adjacent sofa to go through my emails.

As parents, we all know that silence isn’t golden. Rather silence is utterly terrifying. Most of us at some point will have nipped to the loo only to return and find our little one’s have whipped the Crayola’s out and practiced their handwriting on the wall. Even though my Dexter is just 13 months old, he’s already had his fair share of disasters. Major accomplishments to date include deleting blog posts by bashing the laptop with a toy fire engine, smearing vaseline on our TV screen, and eating an orchid. As if it couldn’t get any worse, today, of all days, Dexter decided to give mummy a heart attack.

Looking up from my laptop, I found this…

Yep, he’d found his paints and was busy unscrewing the lids and tucking into the contents. With a face like the Ultimate Warrior, Dexter had managed to apply orange, green and yellow all over his eyelids, mouth and cheeks with all the precision of a pre school make-up artist. In just a few seconds he’d turned our cream sofa into a rainbow-coloured mess.

Stripping Dexter naked in a hurry with one hand, and furiously scrubbing at our sofa with another, he then decided (of all times!) to make a bid for naked freedom. Pulling himself upright to sofa no 2 with sticky multi-coloured hands, he then proceeded to poo on our cream rug. Rushing across to pick him up to prevent him grounding said poo further into the pile of our fluffy rug, I grabbed under his arms and rushed him into the kitchen at arm’s length much as though I were carrying a live bomb. Not quite finished, Dexter left a trail of his breakfast and last night’s dinner in neat little clumps like Hansel and Gretal’s bread crumbs. The lounge smelt like a nursery Grundon.

At that precise moment, the doorbell rings. Conscious of the fact that the letter they had sent to announce their visit stated that they have their own keys, I left my bare-bummed whiffy child in the kitchen to answer the door. Asking the agent to start upstairs whilst I changed my child, he made his way up to the bedrooms.

I then had a few precious moments to retrieve the lumps of poo from the floor, shove some cushions over the stain on the sofa, and get a nappy on an increasingly writhing Dexter. With tasks 1 and 2 complete, I grabbed the changebag and set to work on Dex. As he has a mortal fear of baby wipes he begins to scream with the ferocity of a wounded goat.

(What’s that you say? … Goats don’t scream? Yes they do!)

Perhaps concerned that he might have to call child protective services, the agent rushed downstairs just as I was snapping Dexter’s Pampers into place. Red-faced I explained that Dexter was just tired and offered coffee in a desperate attempt to look natural. As I busied myself in the kitchen, the agent scribbled into his notebook in the lounge and my breathing returned to normal. Mugs in hand I casually walked into the lounge (with my best “Everything is okay” smile) only to discover his well-heeled feet were perilously close to a mound of poo and puddle of wee I had overlooked in my haste.

Inviting him into the kitchen I left a giggling Dexter to play with his toys on the carpet and made small talk with the agent. Five minutes later, I showed him to the door and we strolled past a (still) multi-coloured looking Dexter bashing a plastic ball onto the floor. Stopping to comment on how cute my son was (Oh, the lies we tell…), the agent waved Dexter goodbye and left for his smart 2013 plated Audi parked on our driveway.

Pausing for just a second to calm down behind the now closed front door, I walked back into the lounge to let Dex know we’d gotten away with it. It was then I discovered the ball he’d been attempting to destroy was covered in the poo I had neglected to clear up when I’d ushered the agent into the kitchen. Cue more baby wipes, screams, and a much-needed bath.

Dexter Mills. I love you more-than-words-can-say but I’m dreading the results of this inspection. If we’ve failed and have to move into a tent in nanny’s garden, I’ll get out that Moses basket and send you on a biblical trip down the River Thames. That is all.


101 Positions in 1 Night

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I took Dexter to playgroup yesterday. In fact, my poor son has been dragged to various baby-friendly places this week in a bid to distract me from the knowledge his brother or sister would have been due this week.

The result? He gets a head cold. Yep, my poor little guy has the early onset of man flu.

So last night, we were up every hour, on the hour stroking his head to sooth him back to the Land of Nod. So whilst this mummy was on her 40th hour of no sleep (I’ve been struggling to switch my brain off recently) Dexter started a battle with snot and frequently fell short of his goal to stay asleep.

I know babies struggle to breathe through their mouths if their noses are blocked. This problem is only magnified if they insist, like my son, on sucking their fingers all night. This ultimately led to him dribbling all over his pillow, sputtering, and managing only short 15 minute stretches of sleep at a time.

Tired of stubbing our toes on skirting boards in a sleep-deprived haze, we decided to have him in bed with us. This was to be our first experience of co-sleeping with Dexter since he was 3 months old.

Now, 10 months on, he’s triple the length, and triple the size. Trust me, we might as well have invited another grown-up into our bed!

Unbelievably, my little man moved position every 3 seconds for at least 3 hours. Like a model on amphetamines he was pulling out all the poses non-stop. These included what I now lovingly refer to as the Christ position, the Lotus, the backward Lotus, and the Doggy.

Now, as my 5th consecutive day without make-up draws to a close, I’m a very tired mummy (once again) before Craig even gets home. Today has been characterised by a similar theme to the rest of the week “doing the bare minimum”. So with a house inspection by the letting agency due on Monday, a mountain of washing, and at least an hours worth of tidying due in every room, I’m sat here in a zombie-like state still in my PJ’s at 4.30pm.

So, my question to you all is… do you ever successfully co-sleep with little ones? Can anyone top Dexter on the fidget-stakes? As I’m guessing tonight will be more of the same, I need some tips!!!

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