I've always been of the firm mindset that I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. In this fleeting instance, it appears that my own son does not share this predilection. The household has been consumed of late by the efforts of my wife and I to wean Oliver (six months old next week) off the breast and onto the bottle. Suffice it to say, proceedings are not going swimmingly. Put simply, Oliver's having none of it. His little arms bat the bottle away whenever possible, and even when restrained straight jacket-style (this is not a fun thing to do to one's own child, by the way), his little head whips about with a stubborn efficiency that makes introducing the bottle to his little mouth virtually impossible. Were it not absolutely necessary to get him off the boob-diet, I'd almost be proud of him. If this is any indication of his burgeoning personality, it seems that we are the parents of an extremely willful little boy.
But between the sleepless nights, the piercing headaches and the walloping pangs of guilt inspired by Oliver's pronounced anguish, the wife and I are having a very hard time of it indeed. Charlotte (2 yrs old) was difficult to wean, but she was nowhere near as obstinate as this. Perhaps it's a male thing? Any hint of progress made over the long weekend was dashed yesterday when Oliver mounted a new offensive of purple-faced, teary-cheeked protest. No matter how many times we assure him (and ourselves) that it is for his own good, the frustration at his refusal to cooperate and the emotional toll exacted from the sound of his suffering are draining the life blood from us. Little Charlotte is trying to help in her own little way, skipping over to him, gently patting his head and cooing in oddly cherubic, broken English, "it sokay, leetuw bawoy!"
He'll succumb at some point.
We hope.
Watch this space!
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