How would YOU like it if we told you not to eat or drink in public?

Honestly. I’ve never heard such tosh. And I thought Claridges was supposed to be a highly regarded institution. Surely you don’t really expect me to starve whilst in public, do you?

And don’t even get me started on the whole covering up argument. I mean, have you ever tried eating with a muslin over your head? No, I didn’t think so.

But all of this is really incidental to a much more important point. Because telling my mummy that she must cover herself up whilst feeding me implies that she is desirable in some way. And that’s, like, my mummy you’re talking about. Ew.

It’s not like I approve of my peers’ mummies, either, who went out in full force to make a point of breastfeeding in public, in response to that incident from last week. But on the whole, I absolutely refuse to believe that any bit of flesh you happen to see while I eat is intended. After all, feeding me is just a tiny part of what she must do on a daily basis to both keep me happy and run a home or, God forgive her, go out for afternoon tea to regain some semblance of a normal life. Is it any wonder that throwing a rag over my head so as not to offend any Tom, Dick or Harry isn’t always on the top of her list? Cut her a bit of slack.

So yes, you might sometimes see a flash of nipple while my mummy makes sure I am satiated, but seriously, Claridges, make like we do and just suck it up. After all, it’s no worse than what you’d see walking past a group of builders on a semi-sunny English day in December.

Burping after a meal is polite. Whacking our backs to elicit this? Not so much.

Yeah yeah. We’ve all used that excuse before. You, when you were probably just a few years older than we are now and burping at the table was not looked on by your parents favourably. “In some countries, burping after a meal is a compliment”, you’d argue, knowing full well it wasn’t going to work. “Well unfortunately for you”, you would be told in no uncertain terms, “you do not live in those countries”.

Yet it would seem that a similar rule is afforded to us babies. We eat, we burp. In fact, the two are mutually dependent. For if we don’t let out a Barney-style belch after approximately 60ml of milk (or one breast), we will not be allowed to continue. “Come on darling”, you coo to us, “just do a little burp and I’ll give you some more.”

And it’s not just warm words of encouragement that are used to coaxing it out of us, is it. Oh no. You deem it both necessary and appropriate to hit us on our backs whilst throwing us over your shoulder and bouncing us up and down to do so. I mean, have you ever gone on a rollercoaster after eating an ice cream? And you wonder why we then throw up all over you. Rocket science.

We don’t mean to be rude, after all, we do appreciate the effort – either by subletting out your body to us or spending both time and money washing, filling and sterilising botttles – but let’s be honest here, who ever got really excited about milk? You wouldn’t find anyone from India or China burping after a cup of milk, that’s for sure.

Please, just take the hint. We’re not burping because we don’t want to burp. If and when we do, we will not be shy in letting one out, trust us.

We, the bored of milk, implore you: Sneak us some of your dinner, instead of pretending that we’ll be getting some chicken and roast potatoes in some shape or form later (and we don’t just mean the breast), and we bet you’ll get a very different result.

Go on. We dare you.

Babies for dummies? Not on your life.

So here’s the thing. I may be young but I am far from stupid (ever wondered why I turn off the waterworks as soon as you pick us up? Ha, and you think there’s actually something wrong with me. As if.) Anyway, in a similar vein, sticking a piece of silicone (however ‘silky’ it is, MAM), into my mouth in the desperate hope that it will make like the Americans and pacify me is, quite frankly, ludicrous. I mean, how dumb do you think I really am?

Very, if the name alone is anything to go by. I mean, talk about adding insult to injury. Could you not have come up with a better title for the contraption to at least pretend you don’t think I’m a moron? And America, before you get all excited, ‘pacifier’ is hardly much better – think about it; have you ever come across a baby that wants to be quiet?

Which leads me on the crux of this rant, really. If I’m crying, I’m crying for a reason. Either I want milk, cuddles, sleep, cuddles or, on rare occasions, even cuddles. Contrary to popular belief (yes, even you Gina), a baby will never be crying for a piece of plastic – unless, of course, that plastic yields milk of any kind (and no, I’m not fussed where it comes from – but I’ll leave that for another day).

Getting sucked into these multi-million pound marketing ploys which promise to solve all your baby-related problems with a piece of plastic? Really? If anyone’s the dummy around here, mum, it’s you.