Breastfeeding: Some final observations.

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

Why do kids wake up so early?

It’s half eight. It was approximately six am when the youngest woke, loudly protesting from his ivory cage. Retrieved by hubs, he was plonked into our bed where he immediately latched onto the boob and drank with gusto. He likes to throw in a bit of thrashing around; nothing wakes you up quite like a nipple twist and a headbutt.

A mere twenty minutes later his brother plodded in claiming he couldn’t sleep. The reality that I’d had my last few moments in bed sunk in and I reluctantly plodded downstairs with wriggly offsprings.

These few hours are a little like the twilight zone. I’ve just been handed four coloring pencils and told I need them to ‘shoot the pretend bad guy’. Meanwhile the smaller one is drawing all over the (new) sofa with his pencil ‘gun’. My attempt at a reprimand earned me a toddler growl and that smacky hand thing he does, which I’d find cute if he wasn’t graffiti-ing over the new bloody sofa!!

Every day I wake up determined to be a better parent than I was the day before. Unfortunately the earlier the wake-up call the shorter my patience. The 4 year old asks a question (approximately) every 17 seconds. The other 43 seconds he says ‘mummy’. I find myself snappy and irritable. I hate that. Really hate it.

Say what like about screen-time but these early mornings call for out saviour, the TV. It keeps the boys amused and gives me time to adequately caffeinate. As the dulcet tones of Hey Duggee floated out of the magical box, the one year old IMMEDIATELY started dancing. Or bouncing, to be more accurate. His brother joined in and there was raucous bouncing and giggling from both of them.

And I forgot that I was tired, and I’d been woken with a headbutt and a nipple twist. And I’d been told off by the four year old for pouring his cereal wrong(!) And I joined in with the giggling, and the bouncing and as they sat transfixed, I sipped my coffee, but drank them in. My lovely, lovely boys.