Bovine burnout

Six months of all-night nursing have left Sophie White feeling understandably wary of dairy. Enter this three-ingredient ice cream...

“The milk-mad baby feasts on me all night long. It’s like I’m sharing a bed with a tiny, adorable cannibal”

With the first child, I was an accidental co-sleeper. The bed-sharing just kind of happened once I realised that the infant had no intention of leaving my body for the foreseeable. I was too tired, weakened by prolonged sleep deprivation, to fight him on it.

The first time around, I did not play the co-sleeping game very well and, as a result, found myself sharing the tiniest bed ever with the world’s most wriggling, thrashing child ever. Meanwhile, Himself luxuriated next door, in a huge double bed all to himself.

With this second child, I knew well enough what was coming, so I laid the plans that I thought would best serve me in the event of the inevitable prolonged bed-sharing. Vowing not to be outsmarted by a baby (again), I coldly banished Himself from the marital bed down to a sofa bed, so as to make a cosy bed-nest for myself and the new baby.

What I neglected to remember was that my escape plan after six months of co-sleeping with the first child actually involved fleeing the baby and returning to my own bed. So essentially, I have snookered myself. I am trapped. The cosy nest has become a vipers’ nest, as the milk-mad baby feasts on me all night long. It’s begun to feel as though I am sharing the bed with a tiny, adorable cannibal.

In the darkness of the bedroom I hear the incessant, unnerving chomping and lip smacking; it haunts my dreams, which have taken on certain themes reflective of my reality. In one, I am attempting to protect myself against an infestation of kittens — believe me, not as cute as it sounds. Another featured piranhas. My bed nemesis is an infant; he doesn’t even have head control yet, but still he manages to pursue me around the bed like a dogged predator.

I even constructed a sort of mattress extension, like a mini bed attached to the side of the bed. It means that my bed is now about 10 feet across, yet still there is no escape from the dreaded vice-like latch of the milk fiend. Very occasionally, I manage to escape. I wait until he has fallen asleep and finally relinquished the boob, and I then do the hug ’n’ roll manoeuvre from Friends. Sadly, he’s so crafty, this baby, that even if I successfully extricate myself, he still wins, as I, without fail, will always end up crammed onto the mini bed, while he enjoys the expanse of a double bed intended for two adults.

What with all the milking going on in my life, is it any wonder that I’m feeling a bit over dairy at this stage? If you’ve never tried the magical wonder that is dairy-free, sugar-free banana ice cream, then what have you been doing with your life? I like to whip this too-easy dessert up to fortify me ahead of the dreaded night feast.