The dreaded Bumble. ‘What’s that?, I hear you cry. It’s the dummy. The pacifier. The ridiculously expensive plastic object that my daughter is addicted to. And I mean *addicted*. Bumble is just some silly family word for it, we quite often speak in code.
I originally gave it to her when she was a few days old. I promised myself I wouldn’t when I was pregnant. I was not even going to go there. I knew that it could be detrimental to breastfeeding becoming established in the early days. I worried about buck teeth and oral development. I worried about it delaying her speech if she had the thing stuck in her mouth twenty four hours a day. But, during those first weeks, when breastfeeding wasn’t working and Moo cried most of the day while I pumped, I caved. Moo wanted the comfort, but would struggle and thrash around at the breast, unable to latch. I couldn’t wear her, as I needed to be attached to a breast pump at all hours to build up my almost nonexistent milk supply. And so, the Bumble was introduced.
It comforted her, she settled (most of the time) and I was able to pump, get some rest and rock in the corner in between. As she got older, I came to rely upon it. Any issue was soon fixed with the Bumble and a cuddle, much in the same way a breastfed baby seeks comfort with a nipple. I couldn’t offer that to Moo, who had no idea what to do at the breast, now accustomed to bottle teats. And, here we are, 27 months later, and it’s still here. They were nearly gone at one point, only used for daytime napping. The plan was to do away with them when the nap naturally disappeared. A seamless plan. But, alas, hand foot and mouth disease descended upon us, followed by a urinary tract infection. Moo was inconsolable at times, feverish and in pain, unable to eat or drink. The only thing she’d put in her blister covered mouth was the Bumble. He was back with a vengeance.
They’re such a pain. They cost a small fortune, almost £5 a pair. The companies that make them must be surrounded by piles of gold, laughing at the desperate parents queuing for them in Boots with their last fiver. You never have one to hand when you need it. And when you do find it, it’s either split from the constant chewing or covered in bag fluff and that sand from the beach six months ago that just never goes away (what is up with that?!?). My life would be much simpler if Moo loved the boob. I could just whip it out when she fell over or was ill or tired. But, such is life.
Where to go from here? How can I ensure Moo and the Bumble are forever divorced, without too much heartache and trauma? Her little begging face, asking where he is (Bumble is a ‘he’, by the way), it’s so hard to say no. And at 4am, when she won’t settle after a drink of milk, I’m more than happy to oblige. Damn you Bumble, with your delicious silicone teat and obscene price tag. Damn you.