When I had my first baby I, like most mothers, wanted to do what was best. So I breastfed.
It wasn't easy for the first few weeks, battling mastitis, cracked nipples and exhaustion. I often thought about giving up.
I persevered and everything went according to plan, until I had to go back to work when Cybergirl was 16 weeks old. Expressing milk every few hours in a toilet wasn't ideal, but I was so focused on doing it the "natural" way that I would carry home with me, on the train, my bottles of expressed milk in a cold bag just so she would have it there for the next day.
When baby number two arrived, I attacked breastfeeding like an old hand. Admittedly I knew what to expect, but it didn't make it any easier, and going back to work when he was eight weeks old meant lugging the breast pump, extra bottles and cold bag on the train once again.
But unlike his sister, GameBoy wasn't that fussed on the traditional boob job. Breastfeeding him became a battle of wills. He was too interested in what was around to concentrate on eating for long, and by the time he was a 10-week-old he'd already sprung two lovely little teeth that made things just that bit more difficult.
When he finally bit too hard and drew blood, I packed up the maternity bra, brought out the formula and never looked back.
With PlayStation it was a juggle once again between work and motherhood - dashing off to the day-care centre every two hours to feed him, using my lunch break to make sure he was "naturally" satisfied, and then ducking into the storage closet in between so I didn't embarrass myself or my colleagues with those little accidents that breast feeding mums inevitably have.
My three kids may have had the "best start to life" with what nature provided, but in hindsight, the stress of conforming to the pressure to breastfeed for as long as I could probably took its toll on my mental and emotional health. Consequently, they probably suffered a little too.
The suggestion last week - from a childhood expert - that baby formula should only be available via prescription, not only bought flooding back those wonderful yet frustrating days of early motherhood, but also a sense of disbelief that society still cannot accept that some people can't or don't feel comfortable breastfeeding.
It's not as if new mothers are not already bombarded with incorrect expectations of their role in life. TV and magazines surround us with images of perfectly groomed, size eight, smiling mums, with those snuggly soft, incredibly clean babies who never seem to cry, vomit, or dirty their nappies at inappropriate times.
There's never any mention of frustrated husbands - or hungry babies crying in the middle of the night because they haven't been able to suckle enough from their frazzled mother.
And don't even think about that funny, sour-milk smell that becomes the new eau de cologne for the first few months of your little cherubs' life.
I was never breastfed. It didn't affect my health or my relationship with my mother.
The formula bottles my three kids eventually were weaned onto meant they got to spend some of that special time with their father, their grandmother and a whole bunch of significant others.
Those early days with a new baby are some of the most magical in any mother's life. It's about time society let them enjoy them, without piling on any more expectations and guilt.
Bottle or boob? Should it matter, as long as mother and baby can look into each other's eyes and enjoy each other's company?
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