The maternal and child health nurse told me not to feed my first son any more frequently than three hourly…two and a half if I absolutely had to.  Because of this I watched the clock obsessively and did many laps of the block with my Phil & Teds in order to stretch out his next feed.  It did my head in and I vowed this time to just go with the flow, to feed on demand (within reason…whatever that is). But it takes extreme willpower and a nudge or three from my husband to get me out of bed during the night to feed, so needless to say, I want to know that my effort is in response to a reasonable request, and the clock guides my reaction to the squawk from the nursery.

In the first week or so I tried using the time thing overnight to nudge my husband out of bed for settling duties, stating firmly in my husky voice that I simply couldn’t fulfil that role because our child would smell my delicious milkiness and decide, regardless of the actual reason for awakening, that he wanted to feed. Doesn’t work now…my husband is on to me and sees it for what it is…procrastination and denial.

During the day I try to glance at the clock only fleetingly, avoiding lengthy (purely due to the heaviness of The Fog) time calculations. If the hour hand has moved roughly two numbers along, I relent and unclip the bra. If it’s moved three or more numbers along I feel relieved and proud (of him or me, I’m not sure).  If it’s moved even further than four numbers around the clock face I feel like the luckiest person alive – a slightly different reaction to my ‘Oh god, what if he’s dead in in his cot?’ frame of mind when my first born had a lengthy sleeping stint.

Oh, and sometimes I check the clock to work  out when my next feed is due, and whether it is reasonable to squeeze in a chocolatey snack before the next main meal (for the record, it is always reasonable, according to the objective clock).