Everything
is a first for me this time around. First time learning to change
diapers. Learning to interpret cries. Learning to change outfits--quickly.
Learning to dodge spit up, pack only the bare essentials on outings, and
cope with less sleep. Realizing that this terrifying new
thing--motherhood--is the most trying and rewarding experience of my life thus far.
And then there's breastfeeding.
I will endeavor to sidestep the violent polarizing opinions out there
on the subject and just say that it was something I always wanted to do,
so I did. It was miserable, at first. No book or sage advice could
prepare me for the agony of a hungry little mouth on chapped and
bleeding nipples, the surprising burning sensation when the milk flows
out, or the emotional sense of failure when I (temporarily), switched
over to bottles to give my battered breasts a chance to heal.
But I
did heal, and nursing resumed. I loved it. Baby loved it. I nursed her
for the recommended time, and then some. That wonderful oxytocin rush
accompanying the let down reflex was a drug for us both. But it was not to
last.
It was a solemn day when I realized that I had to start the weaning process. Baby was confused, I was traumatized. Nursing had been masquerading as this small event repeated throughout the day--a necessity for survival--but was really an intimate act that only I could share with her. Without it, I felt bereft, as if losing one of my key footholds of motherhood. I found so many resources out there to educate and support a new mother on starting to breastfeed, but very little for those concluding it.
My dedication toward weaning ebbed and flowed with the current mood of the day. Sometimes I stayed firm. Mostly, I just gave in. Baby's little eyes would close in contentment as she latched and gulped away, cementing my tumultuous internal conflict.
Several weeks elapsed with my quasi weaning commitment until at last, I accepted the inevitability and endeavored to suppress my emotional torment. My little girl was still mine. She was healthy and beautiful. I did what I set out to do, and with the same resolve, it needed to end. Thus began the true weaning--so I nursed three times a day, then twice, then once, then once every two days.... and so on.
I knew breast engorgement would be an issue, no matter how plodding the weaning process, and it was. I hurt. I still hurt. And all the while, every time I passed Baby the bottle, (which she quite enjoyed now), I wished it was still me in which she derived that intense satisfaction.
As much as the first nursing session between Baby and I is engrained in my memory, so I knew the last would be too. I pictured this quiet, perfect moment in the rocker with the both of us content. It was not to be.
This was largely due to my own stupidity. We were meeting a family member we only saw rarely at a distant Starbucks early in the morning, and in our rush to get out the door, I left Baby's bottle in the fridge. Of course we didn't realize this until almost reaching our destination, but I hoped Baby's exceptional good nature would prevail over hunger pains. It did...for most of the visit. But she was getting fidgety after while and I knew exactly why. My husband sent me a desperate glance. We had no nursing cover-up with us, so I scooped Baby up and locked myself in the bathroom. There, sans fanfare, I stood and cradled her, and she nursed for the last time.
I'm finally getting past the physical ramifications of stopping breastfeeding, though I admit to feeling the pesky longing to see Baby latch and close her eyes in contentment. I'm still a bit bitter that a public restroom (eww) is forever memorialized as the final place I concluded a huge part of my experience of motherhood. But Baby's fine. I'm going to be fine. And God willing, I will get to feel that rush of nursing again someday. That's something to look forward to.
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