Sobering up

So I fell off the wagon yesterday. The breastfeeding wagon. I kept thinking about the whole breastfeeding thing and after a week and a half, I had myself convinced that K had still been nursing, that she would have continued to nurse if I'd continued to offer, and that the whole thing had been a giant misunderstanding. "Besides," I told myself, "even if she hadn't been too interested before, surely a week and a half without would have made her want it more." Plus she's sick. They always want mommy milk when they're sick, right?

Um, no.

At naptime, I settled down with her and pulled out the goods. Squirming, fussing. "No really, baby, it's mommy milk." It's possible she actually grimaced. Poor timing, I thought. She always liked it better before bed anyway (this is not actually true, by the way, but it sounded true at the time). So come bedtime, we settled down again. Squirming, fussing. This time I tried to gently encourage nursing (read, slip my breast in her mouth as she's going for her cup). A suck--then withdrawal, and a decidedly dirty look. "Just try it for me," I suggested, and she did. She opened up again, took my breast, and bit it. Hard. The look went from dirty to downright ornery.

But hadn't I walked right into that one?

So the moral of the story, I guess, is that we make good decisions for good reasons, and since our memories may play tricks, we have to trust those decisions. Or get bitten. Literally.

As a footnote, I came out this morning and sat down, only to have K run over calling, "Mil, mil," as she climbed into my lap. "You want milk?" I said, incredulous, to which she said, emphatically, "Yeah!" "You're not really going to offer, are you?" B asked, "After last night?" "Of course," I said with a smile. And I did offer. K took one suck, grimaced (again), and rolled off my lap in search of her water. So it's not just me. Memories play tricks on everyone.

Ducks to the... oh, nevermind

We're under unofficial lock down here as both kids waffle between fevers, so I had to think of an outdoor activity without a lot of interlopers. What better place to go than our duck pond, the one by the library where no one ever goes?

Except today, when there was a mom and daughter there, saturating the less than hungry ducks (it was noontime, and hot) with white bread. And there I was, corralling M as he littered the ground with food and K as she tried to quack up a conversation, my irritation growing. How could they pick today of all days to be here, right now, sucking the life from the one event that was supposed to make our day of sickness and misery a little brighter?

But here's the kicker: they were feeding the ducks white bread. While I, on the other hand, had wholesome cracked corn. Who really belonged, eh?

Yes, I stooped to duck diet condescension, the mother who once copped to feeding them Kix. That's really precious, isn't it?

I can chalk all this up to the fact that was both peed and vomited on last night, and that I'm running on less than three hours of sleep, and that I really love ducks. But yeah, I still feel badly.

Paper mache, anyone?

I like to play this little game: When K starts saying "Uh-ho" from somewhere in the room, I don't look around immediately. I try to identify tell-tale sounds to see what exactly she' s gotten herself into. In this case, the gentle sounds of paper ripping and the little bits she's delivered right to my lap are pretty clear giveaways. But there was some more serious rustling from the easel at my back, so who knows? What fun to make a game out of the mess we will be undoubtedly cleaning up for the rest of the afternoon!

I need to get out more.

As a side note, I only play this game when there are sounds involved, because silence is bad. Very bad. Bad like dismantling a tomato all over our nice cream rugs. You'd think I would know better, but no.

Beating the horse just a wee bit more

Five great things about not nursing anymore:

1) Regular bras, with solid construction and lift too!

2) Being able to make appointments without worrying that someone will starve in the meantime

3) Wearing dresses again, nice long dresses

4) My extra nursing pads are perfect for soaking up pee in the travel potty

5) I no longer have to wonder, as I leave the house, if all the "goods" have been stowed away, or if they will pop out with an inopportune unsnappage.

Yeah... that really didn't make me feel any better. But it was worth a try.

Science, tradition, and chocolate all rolled into one

Today we made pie. It all started when we were reading a book with a pie in it, and M asked us what it was. How could he not know what pie is? But come to think of it, I don't think I've made pie since M was born. And suddenly, we needed pie.

At B's request, M and I worked on a Toll House Pie all day. We started in the morning with the crust, and while I explained the science (lightly), taught him how to dust with flour and roll, and made little pie crust chips for him to eat at lunch with the leftovers, I felt so privileged to be passing along an experience I had with my mother, and she had with hers. It was as much a tradition as any in our family, tied to our traditional Midwestern stock like the mini-farm in the backyard and the old-fashioned middle names.

Sure, the pie was a little tough. It's a delicate art, making crust and filling without generating gluten in the process. But it was the best pie I'd ever had. Ever.

Escape is futile

When M was nearly 14 months old, his waning interest in nursing turned from waning to all done. He would nurse for a few seconds when I offered--and I did offer, same as always--then struggle to sit up. Insistence on resumed breastfeeding led to crying, pushing, and even the occasional bite. I'm all done, he seemed to say. I, on the other hand, was not. I'm not sure when I would have been done, but it wasn't then, not on those terms. I threw myself on my bed, sobbing. I checked daily for milk, just in case he changed his mind. He did not. Then I told myself that I would soon be pregnant (which was true) and that I would have another chance. It would turn out so much different, so much better.

I was wrong. It may have been different, but it's not better, not by a long shot.

We're on Day 4 of no nursing. No measurable nursing. K does just as her brother: polite sucks, not so polite rejection. This time we've traded biting for vehement head-shaking, requests for water or Daddy, and even a tiny hand clapped over the mouth. And yes, that's as insulting as it sounds. I pull out all the stops: positions, songs, cuddling, rocking, etc. The answer's always the same. Three sucks, maybe, then all done. All done. ALL DONE, ALREADY. Sheesh, this lady can't take a hint.

And I'm back to crying, checking for milk, and being generally miserable. Because the kicker this time is that there is no other baby. I'm not going to be excitedly pregnant in the coming months. No third chance around here. Nursing is the last vestige of my stint giving birth, and as it comes to a close, I can't help feeling terribly mournful. It's not that I've lost something. It's just that any great experience comes with the sadness as the event reaches its end--wedding, school, even childbirth. That sadness is a sign of appreciation, and I feel fortunate that I feel it. But it sucks just the same. And I don't know how to get past it. B reminds me of the wonderful freedom this means, how my body is once again my own, that my little girl is not longer a baby but a fun, interactive, amazing little person now. Yet I hold on, fighting the inevitable.

It seems to be a common theme in my life lately. M turning three despite my best efforts to stall. A long beloved playgroup fizzling out. And now nursing. I cling to what I've known, what I love. It's appreciation, which is good, but it's denial, which is not good. I have such trouble with change that when these things happen, I feel adrift. It's as if I'm on a boat leaving shore, looking towards a new island, a new stage of life. But I know this island. I like this island. And I'm in the water already, and the tide has me in its grasp. The sea is stronger than I could ever be, time is stronger than any sea. And yet the sand is still on my fingertips and I don't want to shake it off. This was my sand. How dare anyone take it against my will?

The best answer I can come up with is to change my will. If you can't beat them, join them, right? But here's another cliche, right back at you: easier said than done.

Happy Birthday, Baby Boy

Last night I tucked you into bed, brushing the hair from your forehead, and whispered the exciting news that when you woke up, you would be three years old. Panic seized me and for a moment I was tempted to keep you up all night just to stall the inevitable. But it is inevitable, isn't it?

Happy birthday, my sweet baby. I wish so much for you, but only because you never cease to deserve it.