I am breastfeeding no more. I had no idea how long I’d feed him for when we started, I think 23 months is a good innings. I just wish I’d known the last time I fed him would be the last time I fed him.
I can’t say that I’ll look back fondly over the whole experience. In the very early days, I felt like someone had rubbed broken glass over my nipples. I leaked everywhere and doing all the night feeds solo was bloody torture. When I returned to work I had the most arduous task of feeding him from the breast AND pumping so he could have milk when I wasn’t there. Trying to get him to take a bottle was an actual nightmare and when I seemed to be spending all my time with either a baby or a pump on the boob. I remember the night I cracked. It was late, and I was looking forward to my bed. Then I remembered I hadn’t pumped. I wanted to cry. More so when I realised I couldn’t pump until I’d sterilised the damn thing. I was angry and winced at the suction of the pump. My body didn’t feel like it quite mine anymore. The next day I brought him follow on milk. That freed me from the pump. When he was with me he had booob, when he wasn’t he had follow on milk.
It’s not a natural stop, he’d definitely still be waking at evil o clock in the morning for boob and a snooze if I hadn’t stopped him. But it was time. I can’t imagine he was getting much milk, and his wiggling and fidgeting meant that I was getting a 20 minute nipple twist every morning.
So after a fluke couple of late wakings, where we took him straight down for breakfast, on the third day when he cried for me and was placed in our bed, when he started tapping at my chest and saying ‘boobie’ I told him no. He tapped a little harder. I told him there was no longer milk in mummy’s boobies. ‘Booby is empty darling.’ He began to cry. I held him whilst hubs went to get him a bottle. He wailed when we tried to give him the bottle. He was angry and confused. His little face wet with tears.
When he calmed and accepted the bottle, I had to escape the the bathroom to cry my own hot salty tears. I was so ready to stop, but I felt like I was somehow betraying him. I thought about the first time I fed him. Moments after birth his tiny mouth rooting for food. I had post birth shakes and hubs and I had to struggle with my impractical long sleeve top so he could latch.
He did not sleep a wink that first night. We weren’t great to start with. I tried shields, got through copious amounts of lansinoh and cried. I cried a lot. But we got better!
I remember the first time I fed him in public. Finding the darkest most deserted corner of Costa, sweating with nerves. It got easier after that. As we both got the hang of it we fed anywhere and everywhere. People didn’t look twice at the mum carrying her baby round HobbyCraft, would they if they had known the baby was feeding?
There were days when I felt chained to him. Maybe it was a growth spurt or he felt unwell. By the end of these days I was so sick of constant contact I couldn’t even bear to let the cat sit on my lap. Then there was the biting. On one occasion when his newly acquired teeth had clamped down on my nipple and I was screaming a yelling in pain, (which made him smile and clamp down harder), my husband suggested instead of just screaming, I should concentrate on getting him off. I can’t tell you how close I was to bludgeoning him to death that day!
After our very emotional morning, he asked for boobie once more. He settled more quickly when I gently told him there was no milk in boobie anymore. He hasn’t asked since.
I can’t help but think of future last times. The last time he sleeps in our bed with us, the last time he holds my hand, the last time he calls me ‘mummy’ and maybe it’s better I don’t know when they’ll be. My heart aches a little at his new independance from me. But I guess that’s just what motherhood is; a whole lot of love and heartache
The Postpartum Years 