Our adventures with the NHS continue this week. My bride was less successful with breastfeeding the Critter than she might have liked. (See, I feel comfortable sharing this with you, the Internet. Because I trust you.) The midwife visiting us to check up on Squirmy suggested she might try pumping to stimulate the whole process of dairy production. And in the meantime, we can supplement with some formula, which is cool, because that means I get to participate in the feeding process as well.
That's important to me, but not because of the reasons you might think. My Bride's go-to excuse for allowing me to handle every diaper change was my inability to contribute to the boy's food supply. Now I get to skip every third or fourth change, at least, because I'm Doing My Part (read: "propping up the bottle on a blanket within general reach of the kid's mouth while I try and catch a little more nap time")
The midwife started to suggest where we could get a sterilizer. We both kind of chuckled and said we don't do that. Sterilization, that is. At least, we never did with the first kid, and hey, she turned out ok.
At this revelation of how we choose to live in filth, the midwife turned six shades of grey, and stammered before asking why? Well, you see, my Bride is a scientist by trade, and has a pretty good grasp on the whole notion of sterilization. And the fact that you stick your dirty fingers on the bottle to open it, and fill it, and expose it to the decidedly unsterile air in your average living room or what have you, makes the whole thing pretty pointless. Or at least, no better than washing it with plain old soap and hot water (like a dishwasher).
"And," I pointed out, "it's not like you're sterilizing your boob before you jam that down the kid's throat. Your nipple has got to be a veritable cornucopia of dirty bacteria".
Because I'm helpful like that.
No doubt our midwife is calling the British equivalent of Social Services as we speak.