I've always been on the 'fed is best' side of the fence.

I wanted to breastfeed and I swore I'd be cool with it if it didn't work. But breastfeed I did. I was one of the lucky ones.

My milk came in on day 3, just as they said it would. My hormones went crazy. My nipples hurt like hell. Then... it eased. My sweet babe, you just knew what to do from the off. You got straight to it within minutes of being born.

"As long as she wants it... although I'd like it to be on my terms" was what I said, whenever anyone asked me how long I'd breastfeed for*. Naive? You betcha.

* Can we just make a law that there are some thing it is just inappropriate to ask or say? These should include how you feed, why you feed, when or why you're going to change the way you feed or whether you think the way you feed is enough for your baby. These questions are damaging and the appropriate response to all of these is "That's none of your business".

You stacked on the weight quick as you like - jumping from the 25th to the 50th percentile in just a few weeks.

I loved how easy it was. So convenient, so simple. How incredible that each feed was tailor-made for you, cooling you down or warming you up, fighting off infections and building your immune system, helping you grow millimetre by millimetre.

I began to weigh you weekly, proud of my body for nourishing you beautifully and beaming at the little rolls forming on your thighs; my baby was filling out and getting rounder, all homegrown.

Breastfeeding helped me to love my post-partum body, too. I was so proud of what it had created and continued to sustain. You seemed heftier all the time and I glowed with pride at your plump little body.

Weeks turned to months and your weight gain... slowed. My smile faded a little at weigh in days, but it was all on track, all healthy. All fine.

Then at 5 months - plateau. The scales stayed stubbornly at 6.4kg. Exactly what you had been at 4 months.

I had cornered a nearby health visitor and tried not to cry. She was kind. "Is she interested in food?" she asked.

Yes. No. Sort of.

Don't you see? I've been breastfeeding exclusively for 5 months. You need me. I need you. The longest I've left you for is just shy of 3 hours - and even that was at nigh while you were asleep. Plus you won't take a bottle.

Then we went home and... you took a bottle. So we entered a new phase.

Combi-feeding. One bottle of formula a day, slowly introduced before bed.

You still fed from me though, if only for a few minutes each time. Instead of scrolling on my phone whilst juggling you, I started to savour those moments. Of holding your little body close to mine, looking into your eyes, admiring the dimples on your knuckles and your chubby little wrists, your chunky thighs.

Then came 6 months. Half a year of you. More sterilising bottles, gulping down purées with gusto, failed attempts at baby led weaning. The next big stage.

We hit 29 weeks and just like that, you start to thrash when I hold you to me. I can feel my chest burning - let me feed you! - but you grizzle, twisting your body away.

I cry like I've lost something precious. I try to persevere but hate how stressed you become even as I angle you towards me. We get there when you're tired or in the dead of night. But this could be it. The end of the road.

"It's just milk" a friend sighed and she's right. It is just milk.

But I thought we had more time.