Since I’m nearing weaning time for the last time ever (unless the Big Man upstairs – and I don’t mean Ryan – has other plans), I’d like to thank my two overworked sisters. Thanks, girls, for all you’ve done. Thanks for being the sole nourishment for my three boys for their early months. Thanks for helping them grow fat and strong and healthy. Thanks for giving them super-dee-dooper immune systems so I don’t have to worry about sick kids. Thanks for being ready at a moment’s notice to hush a fussy baby. Thanks for acting as a pacifier after you’re empty but Momma’s still snoozing. Thanks for allowing me to boast stripper measurements for awhile (well one outta three, anyway). You may be a little worse for wear, but I’m sure that you (and I) will experience a miraculous return to our pre-baby state, right?
I’m pretty much past the point where I feel like a truly “nursing mother.” I no longer soak through four layers when I’m away from my munchkin for a few hours. I range farther than 10 miles away from the bambino. I don’t feel that tingly feeling when I hear cries. I’ve passed on those oh-so-sexy nursing bras and returned to my prettier, if slightly ill-fitting, undergarments. I’ve turned in the pump I borrowed and reclaimed my lunch and prep periods at work. I’m even starting to feel like maybe the tiny bit of milk I’m producing probably doesn’t require those extra 500 calories I’ve been diligently consuming. And all these things (except the last one) are really nice! I’m excited to have my body back to myself for good. But there’s a little part of me that wants to keep on nursing indefinitely just because I know once I stop, there’s no going back. That this time I can’t comfort myself with the thought that I’ll get to do it again someday soon. No – this is it. I will never know that bond again. Kinda sad.
But…I suppose it’s not nearly as sad as nursing an 18 year old, so I guess I’ll cut Max off before it gets creepy, cry a little, and then go buy a new lacy (and super supportive) bra for the girls!
Just for fun, here’s a list of things I’ve done while breastfeeding:
- Read the entire Mitford series (actually most of that was done while pumping in the janitor’s closet at school), several other novels, eleventy billion magazines, and more than a few children’s books
- Graded papers
- Eaten--and made at least parts of--countless meals
- Gone to the bathroom (both varieties), complete with proper hand cleansing (ok – only one hand was cleansed, but it was the only hand I used, so I say it counts)
- Ridden in a moving vehicle—and before you dial DFS – the baby(ies) was (were) buckled in their car seat. Me? Not so much.
- Tended to baby’s boogers, ear wax, baby acne, cradle crap, and other things only a mother could do without throwing up in their mouth at least a little
- Dressed, undressed, put on make-up, applied deodorant, trimmed nails, etc.
- Cried (in pain, hormone overflow, happiness, sadness about being nothing but a milk cow, sadness about nearing weaning time, etc.)
- Gave Calvin his first hair cut
- Made a batch of dinosaur munchies with the bigguns (yes, the gas range was involved and yes, I was standing up)
- Chased down, caught, wrestled into position, and spanked Calvin – twice (if you know Wild Child, you know that’s no small feat--even without something attached to your boob)