So Art has decided he doesn't want me anymore.
It's not as dramatic as it sounds...he just doesn't want to feed from me these days.
I knew the day would come, when I'd stop nursing him... but I'd never really thought too much about when that would be, and so I guess it came as a surprise that it was
him who decided that journey was over thank you very much.
Those of you who have read my blog for a few months now would remember my struggles and pain with establishing breast feeding. It wasn't pretty. Still to this day however, I'm so so thankful for the advice and support I received through that time encouraging me to continue, and my inner perseverance that I didn't know existed prior to the whole experience. I'll never forget the hours I spent nursing him in that brown wing chair in his room, in the day, the night, the wee hours of the morning. Through freezing cold winters where I wrapped us both in my dressing gown to keep warm, and the sweaty hot summer where he fed in just a nappy, his little hot body sticking to mine.
These are moments to treasure. He literally grew from a newborn to a little boy in my arms as he fed. It wasn't until a few weeks ago when I was lying down with Art, feeding him first thing in the morning in my bed (my favourite time) and my husband said "you know, I just realised he is quite big now, like almost to the point of being more of a little boy... and it seems weird, like he isn't a baby anymore".
I too suddenly realised how big he had become and how little milk I did actually have. Bless him for loyally returning to my empty mammaries and pretending they still provided a slither of sustenance, they really didn't. I'd had supply struggles since he was about 4 months old which was weird because I'd always had quite a lot of milk.
After lots of feeding and pumping, I ended up with sporadic engorgement and still not enough milk to get him through even 4 hours or even have enough left over to pump a small bottle so others could watch him sometimes for me. I'd make a useless dairy cow.
And so, a few days later, it's like he realised how little they provided, and how much MORE FUN it was to play with Daddy in bed. It started out all 'feed, roll over, giggle with dad, roll over, feed, roll over, play with Dad, giggle and tickles, roll over, feed... and by that stage I started feeling a wee bit rejected. Then, a few days later, I cuddled him into me and proceeded to set up for a morning feed and I got a big shove in the chest, and he rolled over to play with his Daddy, not even passing me a sideways glance or opening his mouth, and that was it. No thanks Mum, I'm done with those... can you go and make me a bottle?
'Breast is Best ' preachers around the world are probably reeling at the thought of an 8 month old choosing to end his breastfeeding journey and having a mother like me who allows it's conclusion. I don't care about those opinions... I only care for my son.. who is
so overly loved and full of loveliness and health that I never once thought that ending that part of our lives would harm or short change him in any way. It doesn't need justifying and I'm not looking for opinions, but I wanted to write it down to remember... the end of an era.
And so a new era begins... in baby proofing our home! This kid is fast...
I don't have a photo to share here, but I do have a drawing done by my husband of our little family in those first few days.
