The great bottle feeding conspiracy revealed

Over a month ago I wrote about the impending doom that hovered over Castle Studebake like a dog's leg over a fire hydrant. My wife had begun discussing the introduction of formula into young Throckmorton's digestive system.

My fear was that bottle feeding might simply be a conspiracy to keep me up at night with fatherly duties. Now, a couple of weeks into the dreaded operation I realize that my fears were justified. I am a shell of a man, barely capable of coping with twist-off caps and such necessities of life.

The feed I have been made responsible for by the omnipotent Chairwoman of the all powerful Family Planning Committee, aka my lovely wife, is referred to as the 10 o'clock feed. In fact this feed only takes place between 1:30 and 4 am. As you can imagine this ensures that I am a completely useless soul during all sunlit hours.

The second highly demanding factor is that my heir, Achilles Renoir, has decided that he is really not interested in the bottle at all, but would prefer to play two games at which he excels.

The first is called "Shit in a fresh diaper", in which I change the boy, and twelve seconds later his face widens briefly, followed by a storm in the drain. This game repeats.

The second is called "You thought I was sleeping, sucker", in which Kikuchiyo feigns sleep throughout all my thorough assessment techniques, but as soon as I lay him down in his crib he opens his eyes wide, smiles, grunts and shits (thus initiating another round of "Shit in a fresh diaper").

Here is my advice to all new dads:

1) Read everything you can about the benefits of breast feeding.
2) Print out the most radical claims you can find.
3) Insert these print outs as bookmarks in every one of your wife's baby books.
4) Assure your wife she is making the best decision by breast feeding for longer than a medieval Swedish peasant woman.
5) Enjoy your rest.