I’m a firm believer that how your choose to feed your baby is an entirely personal thing, I’m an avid breastfeeding supporter but would never push my choices on any one, preferring instead to offer advice I gained professionally and personally, when asked for it. Yet even with all my knowledge and experience I still struggled to feed Baby R in the early days.
You’d be forgiven for thinking that third time round I should know what I’m doing but still those first few weeks were a mixture of pain,despair and frustration, it was only my determination to succeed and stubbornness that I should know what I’m doing wrong, that spurned me on. I knew the science behind breast milk, the bonding opportunities that I was creating and the long term benefits to both Baby R and I, so it was going to take a bit more than blood, sweat and tears for me to succumb to a bottle.
It took two long weeks for my corner to reveal its self, in hindsight that doesn’t seem much but while you’re living it day and night, two weeks seems an eternity. So when I did turn that corner and my body healed from the trauma, my enthusiasm returned and felt I’d cracked it, I didn’t want to be thinking of the time when I would stop. But that time is fast approaching and I’ve got to face the grim reality that very soon my breastfeeding journey will be over for good.
And that makes me sad.
Sad that my body will no longer provide life to another being.
Sad that I’ll no longer feel the closeness of Baby R snuggling in for a sleepy feed.
Sad that I’ll almost certainly shrink to a bra size small enough for a pre teeen.
Sad that I’ll no longer be able to eat cake at 10am / 2pm / 8pm without feeling guilty.
Sad that I’ll never breastfeed ever again.
Maybe the sadness’ due to the fact that my decision to stop isn’t my own. As maternity leave draws to an end and my (brief ) return back to the work place draws closer, I’m feeling a little forced into giving up something I enjoy so much and nobody enjoys being told what to do.
Maybe it’s the hormones and once they’ve exited my baby-baring-body and shut the door for good, I’ll embrace the joys of wired, (padded!) bras, a wardrobe without easy access and being able to drink a Pimms or 2. Who knows?
So as I whittle down the day time feeds in a carefully executed plan, while my husband and older children stand eagerly in the wings with the bottles, please excuse the tinge of self pity I’m trying so desperately to hide.
I’m a breastfeeding Mumma but my time is up….
…..and that makes me sad.