Sitting in bed holding my tiny baby against my breast, I yawned. In the few weeks since Jack had been born in July 1997, he’d demanded food around the clock. ‘You’re a hungry little chap,’ I smiled, placing him back into his cot. But as I clicked off my bedside lamp, I worried.
Jack was always so pale. And no matter how much milk he guzzled, his weight just kept going down. He’d been 7lb 13oz at birth, but had lost several ounces since then and doctors shared my concerns. ‘You need to bottle feed him,’ I was told. I’d breastfed my daughter Louise, then four, with no problems, so my mother’s instinct told me that something else was wrong. Still, back at home, I warmed up a bottle
