Browsing Tag


Five ways I trick my boobs into producing more milk

Now, this is blatant blog filler because I’m away on my holidays** and need to get back to slightly-more-hungover-than-usual babywrangling in a slightly-nicer-than-usual location.

That said, I am rubbish at expressing milk into any receptacle other than my son. I have a hand pump. I have an electric pump. I have, er, hands. During a good hour’s boobery (even after massaging them and doing other things that make me feel a bit like my own molester) I can squeeze out a teenth of a millilitre of milk using these methods; it’s pathetic. And yet my son, exclusively breastfed, is fat and bouncing.

Occasionally, though, I can trick my breasts into squirting out the requisite amount to allow me to go to the cinema or dentist now and again. This is how I do it, but if you have any tips, my boobs, and maybe other people’s boobs, would really appreciate it if you shared them in the comments…


1. I browse photos of my son until I cry

Admittedly I do this all the time, and that’s why my phone keeps going STOP THIS THERE IS NO MORE ROOM STOP IT NOW at me. The thing is, if I do it until I cry, eventually my boobs cry, too, and I can capture their tears in a Tommy Tippee cup so I can go and watch Jurassic World and have a cheeky Nando’s once every couple of months. Isn’t nature majestic.

2. I watch this clip of Miracle on 34th Street 

The strangely soft-focus 1990s remake is my unashamed favourite Christmas movie. Here, a deaf little girl goes to see Father Christmas and her mum’s all “oh, you don’t need to talk to her, it’s just enough that she can see you”  and then Kris Kringle asks her what she wants for Christmas in perfect sign language, and oh god. I and my boobs are in floods.

3. I hug my husband

I hug him good and hard until the oxytocin starts flowing, and then I abandon him for the breast pump, like the heartless cow I am.


A video posted by Robyn Wilder Heritage (@orbyn) on

4. I watch this video of my husband and son having a raspberry conversation

I watch it over and over while massaging my boobs which, now I think about it, is super creepy.

5. I listen to this song Dumbo’s mum sings to him when she’s taken away, because apparently I bloody hate myself.

*Inconsolable sobbing, forever*

** Literally an Airbnb in the same county, only closer to the beach.

Snoob reviewb: a decent breastfeeding scarf

Full disclosure: I was sent this Snoob for free.

With apologies to Full Metal Jacket, this is my Snoob. There are many like it but this one is mine. My Snoob is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I master my life. Without me it is useless. Without it I am useless.

Before I got my Snoob, breastfeeding in public was an exercise in humiliation. While I’m all for municipal nursing in theory, in practice I am extraordinarily awkward and really only recently managed to be okay with taking a poo in the same postcode as other people, so whipping out my norks willy-nilly in Starbucks has been a steep learning curve.

And Herbie doesn’t help. He is the most active baby I’ve ever met (admittedly I only know, like, two other babies), and unlike those docile creatures who quietly fold up under your arm and suckle peacefully in your arms, Herb’s preferred breastfeeding MO is to nurse intermittently while roaring into the sky and flailing his limbs about as though he’s playing an invisible one-man-band kit.

Which is lovely.

And the more discreet I try to be, the more Animal-from-The-Muppets he gets. He kicks at my shoulder. He yanks on my T-shirt and tries to punch my hair clean out of my head. He lurches wildly back and forth as though he’s finally getting out of the welding business and into a modern dance audition.

Enter the Snoob.

The Snoob is basically a roomy snood made of lightweight cotton jersey. You can wear it draped prettily round your neck, and when you want to breastfeed you can pull it out to its deceptively deep full width – there’s enough material to cover you, your shoulders and most of your baby once they’re latched on.

There’s a bit of shuffling involved as you need to basically manoeuvre a hungry baby into a giant fabric hoop, which doesn’t always go tranquilly, but once they’re on the boob the acres of material actually create a tenting effect, which Herb seems to find less offensive than a bunched-up T-shirt in his face.

Also, you can do all sorts under the private canopy of your Snoob: swap boobs, wind your baby, gossip with your baby about the man sitting opposite you, eat a Snickers bar; all sorts.

Basically I never leave the house without my Snoob now, because it also functions as a baby blanket, sun shade, thingy for Herbie for yank at/twist/gnaw on when we’re on the train, and a shawl/attractive ethnic rain hat for me. It folds up neatly into my changing bag and goes with most of my outfits (although a linen one for summer would be very welcome).

Recently I went into London with Herbie in the carrier and totally underestimated how cold it was. The Snoob was exactly big enough to wear looped around the carrier as a second layer, and when Herbie inevitably kicked off his sock in the middle of Soho I was able to magic up a makeshift foot covering using just a hairband and a corner of the Snoob. Tuddah!

So, the Snoob, £25.00. I am a fan. Yes, you could just get a regular snood, but it wouldn’t cover your baby as well, or be as soft on your baby’s skin.

They come in lots of different colours (mine’s “petrol blue”, but “cloud grey” is my favourite) and once I win the lottery I shall buy them all. BUY THEM ALL, YOU HEAR ME? And then there will be none for you, which sort of renders this review pointless. But anyway, there we go. Snoob!