I’m having a super grumpy morning. Be warned. Yes, I know, if you went by this blog alone, you’d think that my entire life was one piece of grumpitude, but hey. Writing is therapy and all that. I ran away from the playground, left my big boy and my hubby there, and am sitting in a cafe with a double-shot latte and a croissant, my little one sleeping against my chest, hoping that will help somehow.
Turns out I’m not like everyone else.
Boo articles like this.
‘It makes you hoard milk like you are secretly a squirrel.’
Right, so I should have taken that as a sign and stopped reading there. I suppose it has made me hoard milk, but not my own. And yes, I am very precious with it, but no, I don’t feel ‘such a strange sense of pride when I see those little milk badges of honour’, though goodness I’d love to.
‘Crying babies in public scare you… Must retreat quickly before my milk lets down!’
I have many cute, lace-lined washable breast pads that were bought particularly for this reason. Do you know where they are? In land-fill. At least I didn’t burn them.
10. You feel like flexing when your baby gets weighed at the doctor’s office. Yeah! Look what I did! Milk power, baby! Cue cheering in your own head as you leap onto an imaginary pedestal and accept your gold medal for most powerful breast milk ever.
I’ve already posted a disclaimer about the fact that I may write completely irrational things with regard to breastfeeding. Here is another one: I look at my baby’s beautiful beautiful beautiful little chubilicious feet, and instead of feeling proud that I am feeding him the amount that he wants and needs (and my boy really does believe that he needs feet that chubby!), I wonder how much of that is from my milk, and how much from supplement. The first knuckle – Is that the supplement knuckle? Ridiculous, I know. This is absolutely the thing that I crave most – this knowledge. I did that. All by myself.
I’ve never been good at accepting help. From people or from milk.