I’ll accept your accolades––this has been one of my most difficult but most rewarding achievements so far.
Breastfeeding.
It is not my favorite. In fact, the words I dreaded most in June and July were probably, “I think he might be hungry,” as gingerly uttered by Jeff as he advanced toward me with a crying Matthew. (You can give Jeff accolades, too. We wouldn’t have made it without him pinning Matt’s arms down and massaging my shoulders and drying both our tears, mine mostly from sleep deprivation.)
It’s no big deal now, though, except when we’re out and about somewhere and Matt thinks it’s funny to pull the blanket off his head and flash my boob to the whole world.
I do feel a sense of accomplishment that we’re approaching the seven-month mark with breastfeeding and that it’s no longer the dreaded encounter it first was, back when Matthew flailed his little arms and squirmed around uncontrollably with impatience and cried and cried like he was starving to death if he had to wait ten more seconds for some food.
It’s kind of like marathon training. It’s really not so great in the beginning, it’s really tiring, and it would certainly be much easier to just quit. Let other people do it. What’s the big deal, anyway? What’s the reward? But then you run fifteen miles, and you feel great, and you think, “Yeah, I’m so healthy. This is good for me. I can do this and other people can’t.” (But you think that in a non-condescending way. Because other people can do it. And do.)
Then there are always those people who discourage, even if subtly or unintentionally: “Why would you put your body through all that? Why make the effort? There are other alternatives. You could sleep longer. Fill your time with other things. Other people don’t do it, and they’re fine.” (Wait, is this paragraph about running or breastfeeding? Probably both. I got lost in the writing.)
I’ve never really gotten those warm maternal feelings from breastfeeding that others talk so much about, and I’m sure that at this point I never will, but I do think the relationship that exists has helped with my day-to-day happiness with staying at home all day with a baby. Especially in the first few weeks of new-baby chaos when I was so tired and hungry all the time, and overwhelmed, and I kept thinking, “God had a good plan with this. I’m sure there are millions of people who could take care of this baby better than I can. I should just run away! …oh, wait, Mr. Flaily Arms will get hungry. And I can’t leave a hungry baby.” And then it would be feeding time again, and I’d sit on the couch and read or watch the horror that is A Baby Story, and think, “Okay. I’m rested. I can carry on. We’ll be fine.” It was like forced bonding. Which was good for me.
So, yay! We made it! We’re making it!
Breastfeeding.
It is not my favorite. In fact, the words I dreaded most in June and July were probably, “I think he might be hungry,” as gingerly uttered by Jeff as he advanced toward me with a crying Matthew. (You can give Jeff accolades, too. We wouldn’t have made it without him pinning Matt’s arms down and massaging my shoulders and drying both our tears, mine mostly from sleep deprivation.)
It’s no big deal now, though, except when we’re out and about somewhere and Matt thinks it’s funny to pull the blanket off his head and flash my boob to the whole world.
I do feel a sense of accomplishment that we’re approaching the seven-month mark with breastfeeding and that it’s no longer the dreaded encounter it first was, back when Matthew flailed his little arms and squirmed around uncontrollably with impatience and cried and cried like he was starving to death if he had to wait ten more seconds for some food.
It’s kind of like marathon training. It’s really not so great in the beginning, it’s really tiring, and it would certainly be much easier to just quit. Let other people do it. What’s the big deal, anyway? What’s the reward? But then you run fifteen miles, and you feel great, and you think, “Yeah, I’m so healthy. This is good for me. I can do this and other people can’t.” (But you think that in a non-condescending way. Because other people can do it. And do.)
Then there are always those people who discourage, even if subtly or unintentionally: “Why would you put your body through all that? Why make the effort? There are other alternatives. You could sleep longer. Fill your time with other things. Other people don’t do it, and they’re fine.” (Wait, is this paragraph about running or breastfeeding? Probably both. I got lost in the writing.)
I’ve never really gotten those warm maternal feelings from breastfeeding that others talk so much about, and I’m sure that at this point I never will, but I do think the relationship that exists has helped with my day-to-day happiness with staying at home all day with a baby. Especially in the first few weeks of new-baby chaos when I was so tired and hungry all the time, and overwhelmed, and I kept thinking, “God had a good plan with this. I’m sure there are millions of people who could take care of this baby better than I can. I should just run away! …oh, wait, Mr. Flaily Arms will get hungry. And I can’t leave a hungry baby.” And then it would be feeding time again, and I’d sit on the couch and read or watch the horror that is A Baby Story, and think, “Okay. I’m rested. I can carry on. We’ll be fine.” It was like forced bonding. Which was good for me.
So, yay! We made it! We’re making it!
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