In the midst of de-nursifying our 10-month old, my greatest fear was that Anna would miss it too much... I would miss it too much... Those random half-hours during the day where she would eat and I would gaze at her, our bond ever growing.
Yet, there were those moments where I thought I'd go crazy because she would take an hour to eat, or I was in the middle of working, or cleaning, or cooking, and I'd have to stop. Sometimes I would lay there, feeling tired and drained, and think, "She is literally sucking the life out of me!" Or I'd fret over whether or not she was eating enough and if I was responsible for her teenie-tiny weight-gain. And I mustn't forget about the 3-hour time limit (at best) in between feedings that I had to run out and do my own thing for a while, or take Gabe out for the day, or go run errands. And those three hours, when I got them, seemed to fly faster than the speed of light. Nursing is and was truly a sacrifice.
I keep thinking of these moments to bring myself out of the minor depression that rears its ugly head and to fight off the tiny bouts of guilt I have felt lately for supplementing her, more and more as each day passes, with baby formula.
But then I reflect back on the moments in public businesses, specifically restaurants, where it came time to feed her. I'd bust out my trusty "Hooter Hider" that I loved but she hated, and as I attempted blissful nursing, she started tearing down the very cloth that covered me and literally fought for any way out of it. "How many people in New York have seen my boobs during her tirades?" I think to myself. I'll never know the answer. I think those avoiding all eye-contact with me after seeing her feisty battle against all that is the Hooter Hider gives me a clue. About 4 million out of the 8 that reside in Manhattan. I can't even calculate Queens at this point.
All I wished for at these moments was a baby who laid nicely under the Hider and ate until she was full. That was nowhere in sight. She'd turn into Rocky Balboa and literally punch at the thing, spewing milk at whatever moved into her path and my boob chasing after her, "Anna - Eat. Annnnnnnaa.... Come on Baby Girl... Eat...."
This is such a familiar scenario that Manny nor Gabe are the least bit affected by it anymore. (You did read about Gabe placing the doll onto his nipple, yes?)
So as I laid down to nurse her yesterday morning, she latched for a few minutes and then acted uninterested. I tried again. Uninterested. Again. Nothing. "Mannnieeee, can you grab a bottle? I think she wants that instead," I call out. I can't believe what I am hearing. My baby wants a bottle over me!
Three months ago this would have been music to my ears. I would have jumped up and rejoiced. Shouted to the mountain tops: "I'm Freeeeeee!!!" Now, when she sees a bottle and almost jumps out my arms with glee and starts yelling at the bottle (as if to tell it - or us - to hurry up and feed her already), I don't know whether to rejoice or feel rejected.
As the feelings of abandonment take over, and I retreat to the bedroom to pump a few ounces until they dry up, I make tiny mental notes of why this is a good thing.
Tiny Mental Note Number 1: FREEDOM!!!
2: FREEDOM!!!
3. FREEEEEEDOMMMMMMM!!!!!
Post-nursing guilt: Go. Away.
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