Got Milk?

Owen turned 8 months old last week (!) and has been sleeping much better, big long stretches of hours and hours, so much so that when Adam and I wake up in the morning, we have no idea whether we got up with him in the middle of the night or not, leading us to believe that our dear Odie is sleeping from 7 until 5am. He also has two new teeth, smackdab in the middle of the lower half of his mouth. Despite these teeth, I have yet to feel them when I'm nursing, which brings me to the first and only time I'm going to write about breastfeeding.

I'm still taken aback when strangers straight out ask me if I'm still breastfeeding. I mean, I am, but it still bugs me. I'm not a prude, far from it. But I just don't get why so many women (don't even GET me started on the men who ask) feel that it's okay to ask this question. What would they do or say if I said no?

What has always been important to me is that Owen is fed. Filled to the gills. Stuffed. And by the looks of him, he has always been fed, filled to the gills, and stuffed. And while I am amazed that it's my BODY that has contributed to his growth, I certainly don't feel that I'm better than other mums who can't or won't nurse. I'm an opinionated gal. Pretty much all of my thoughts are black or white, although I am fully aware of the grey. I thought for sure that this way of thinking would be even more pronounced as a mum, but I have surprised myself. I am of the mind that whatever works for YOUR FAMILY is the best way. I don't care what or how you feed your kid. I don't care how the kid gets fed. Is the kid fed? Great. That's all I care about. Which brings me to the reason why I'm writing.

At the beginning of my mumhood, I had no idea that my baby would want to nurse all the time, almost every hour. I felt like a cow in jail. I was basically glued to the couch, remote control in one hand, glass of water in the other, and receiving blankets close at hand. As Owen has grown and grown and grown (close to 23 lbs now, long and leaning out!), he has decided that he wants to eat more solids, nurse less, and do more on his own. His parents are independent thinkers, why shouldn't he be? So over the last month, he has been having a bottle of formula (haters start hating) twice a day and nursed first thing in the morning and in the afternoon. Nursing him has become more and more of a challenge. He's heavy. He's squirmy. He spits milk because he thinks it's funny. He pulls my hair. He pulls off to look around the room or to try to crawl away. None of that really bothers me. Heck, I signed up for this gig. If we miss the afternoon nursing snack, he's not bothered, neither am I. But today at lunch, he took the bottle out of my hands and fed himself. I just kind of let him, and my heart broke.

I've kind of realized that this part of our relationship is coming to an end, although I complained about having to be available for Owen's "on tap" milk habit. I was lucky not to have had any problems nursing. So to see my little guy growing and asserting his independence makes me proud but a little sad. I'll miss our quiet moments together, but these moments will soon be replaced with other special moments, like the first time I really think he has purposely grabbed my hand, or kissed me, or called me Mummy. I can't wait for those moments to come.