First of all, thanks to FYBF, I have a number of new followers (that number being three), and I would like to officially welcome you to my blog! Round of applause everyone please.
Secondly, I feel that I should qualify that I don’t actually spend a lot of time talking about my boobs, or boobs in general for that matter. Although the following blog may seem to indicate otherwise. To prove this, I will not be adding a ‘boobs’ tag.
So I’ll admit it. I didn’t go the doctor yesterday. I made the appointment, but then I fed Ava, and she seemed to get most of the block, so I cancelled it. Normally I would have still gone, but yesterday I just couldn’t be bothered.
The day progressed ok. Yeah that was a small amount of pain, but with every feed she seemed to drain a little more, and I was feeling confident that it would be alright. I had saved myself the eighty dollar doctor fee, plus the antibiotic cost, and more importantly I had saved myself the headache of dragging an almost three year old and a ten month old to the doctor again.
And then she bit me.
As if I wasn’t in enough pain anyway, she dug those little incisors into my nipple, and I fully expected to see blood. Recollections of a conversation with a friend of how a woman showed her her half bitten off nipple, flooded in my mind. Followed immediately by the thoughts, ‘maybe it’s time to wean.’
I never said it. I just thought it, but I think she somehow read my mind, because come bedtime, she refused the breast. Flat out refused. And the bottle? The bottle that she had showed no interest in up until that point, suddenly became her best friend.
I thought it might be a one off. After the biting incident, and a firm telling off, she had been rather upset. I can imagine she felt some trepidation going there again, as if the same thing might happen.
But at twelve o clock last night she refused it again. And then at five thirty this morning. You would think at five o clock in the morning, hunger would trump trepidation, but only a bottle would do.
So you can imagine how my poor left boob is fairing right about now. (Though you probably don’t want to.) Apart from being so big it threatens to pull me forward every time I walk, it is so sore, and that blocked milk duct is back with friends. Friends called achy muscles, and extreme lethargy (though that might be the lack of sleep). So today I will go to the doctors. And I might even ask for some drugs to stop the supply altogether. It’s been ten months. And I have spent the equivalent of four years breastfeeding, I think it’s allowed.
I didn’t expect it to end this way. But nothing about Ava’s arrival or birth went the way I expected. Almost premmie, and then weeks of bed rest, only for her to be a week overdue and delivered in the hardest labour of the lot of them. Antenatal, and postnatal depression to add to my list of ‘been there, done that.’ You think I could have at least this one thing. To stop breastfeeding when I’m ready. When it works for me.
Now to be honest, the mastitis and the bitter nipple are closure enough. That on it’s own right is enough to make anyone want to stop. But I will miss big (ish) boobs. And the ability to eat whatever I want. And the passing of another chapter in my life, never to be repeated.
Last night I dreamt about boobs. (Sad isn’t it?) I dreamt I was pregnant, and that’s why Ava wouldn’t drink. I dreamt Taylah started developing, and I had to take her shopping for a training bra. And I dreamt that all the boys at school had man boobs, and where participating in the latest craze. Move over planking, it’s time to lick your own nipples!
Now maybe this makes me a little crazy. I’m inclined to agree with you. Or maybe it just makes me delirious because my stupid boobs are making me sick.
Or maybe this is just my brain showing how little control I really have in my own life.
In the past twelve months, so much has happened, that if I didn’t believe there was a God before, I would have to now. Someone has to know what’s going on in this crazy world. Natural disasters by the bucket, young women dying of cancer and car accidents, little babies born dead because the doctors missed one thing on an ultrasound. Life happens and changes so fast and so permanently, I have to believe that someone is out there holding it all together, because if not, seriously what’s the point? We have no control, and no say over most things that happen. Even the things we think we do.
So on that note, I farewell my ample bosoms, soon to be replaced by their much smaller shadows. I welcome back menstruation (sigh) and portion controlled meals (double sigh). I finally give my body back to me, instead of all the little people who have held it hostage (in such a beautiful way) for the last soon to be eight years. And I can finally throw away all the nursing bras for good, and maybe convince my husband that I need to go shopping at Lorna Jane for some new ones.
And on that note, I’m going to bed to dream about shopping. And hopefully not boobs.