Breastfeeding is unrelenting. I am thankful to the tune of over 800 dollars in formula savings and thankful after two non-nursed babies that I have had the experience. Other than that: Boobie Prison. I am in a prison of boobs. I am bound by those guys in every since of the word: bound literally to a human and schedule bound by my diary farm.
My newly turned 8 month old has decided to make me her full-service Kroger vying only for breast milk and rejecting most foods as gag worthy garbage cans. It’s all me, all the time. I feel like I am just two jars of baby food or one mushed potato away from a little freedom. Something…anything…just not my boobs. Whole aisle of baby foods, 15,000 food items in a grocery store and all she wants is me (sobbing audibly).
I want some bond paid on these guys so I can get a little escape like a date night without a pint-sized person in tow or an outing alone where I’m not worried about being home by the magical three hour mark where she turns into a pumpkin if the clock chimes boobie time.
And I know what you are thinking, just pump and give her a bottle.
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha (crazy person laughing continues) Hahahahahahahaha.
There is nothing a person who feels like she is in boob prison likes more than pumping, never mind you have to have something to pump. I don’t want to shatter any storage records, but I have 8 ounces frozen in my freezer. That’s not for a date night. That is more for like, “Hey, I’m throwing up with a stomach virus. Use the emergency dispensary.” Furthermore, she has to take the bottle. She has and I think she would again, but I make no promises nor bets on the poor babysitter who would have to venture the validity of that statement.
So, until then, I nurse in public. I nurse in cars. I nurse on couches. I nurse on beds. I nurse while standing. I nurse while nodding off. I nurse in boxes. I sometimes nurse with foxes and because of that, I know what the fox says. He says, “Hey, this is weird you are nursing here. You must be in boobie prison.” I breakdown and say that I am and we embrace. He told me his wife has 8 nipples so I felt a little better. People underestimate the compassion of foxes.
When I walk around the house and she hears my voice or makes eye contact, she will give me that little toothless grin. I love it. If she starts to sort of whimper, oh no. It’s coming. Smiling over…feast a’comin. Still I’ll admit, it can be really sweet and I’m sure I will be a little sad when it’s over (although right now I would bet my left leg I’ll do a cheer). I feel like I can’t remember what life was like before the take over. It’s definitely been an experience for me. Difficult in the beginning, draining (Is that a pun? I’ll never tell.), and all consuming. Hallelujah it worked out for me this time because I really wanted to nurse but, help me mammories! Have mercy! I’m drowning in baby and she’s zippidy- do-dah happily drowning in me.
I think she may be stalking me. I really don’t like to talk about it. But if I ever turn up dead and they do a 48 hour special on me, alls I’m sayin’ is…make sure they use only my Facebook cover photos for the episode. THEN look into the baby as a suspect. Her DNA will be every where, but it will be a confusing scene. It’s her. Dehydration. Death by dehydration while being forced against her will. Write that down.