Twelve Days of Christmas: 8

Eight Maids A-Milking


 

Photo credit: Spamily via Flickr



Merry Christmas. What a gift! The cold shoulder!

Get this, Sunday lunch and I’m feeding the baby. My mother-in-law says breastfeeding is not something to be shared at the dinner table. I told her ‘It’s not your dinner table.’ Then John reminded me she’d helped pay for it.

            ‘She didn’t pay for this chair,’ I said, ‘I’ll do whatever I like on it.’ And I carried on feeding the baby. She went to the bathroom and didn’t come out ’til pudding. Ridiculous. And now we’re not invited to Christmas.

‘Breastfeeding at the table is not in the festive spirit of things.’ I don’t know how she thinks baby Jesus got fed.

So that’s it, no seeing her granddaughter on Christmas day. Says she’ll come for mince pies on Boxing Day. I haven’t invited her. Neither has John. He says he’s with me on this. Although he did say Arabella probably doesn’t care if she gets a boob or a bottle and perhaps I could compromise just this once. I threw Flat Bunny at him. ‘That’s not the point!’ I said. So he’s staying home with me.

I told the girls from Mums and Bubs Club. They were spitting teeth, couldn’t believe it. They agreed with me, they said all eight of us should stage a sit-in at her house: turkey, brussel sprouts and boobs out.

            Merry Christmas! I should tell her not to cry over spilt milk.