Saturday, April 12, 2008
My tatters are torn.
Birds are singing, the babe is in his father's arms, and my boobs are aflame. Must be Spring!
Boobs. Yes. For a variety of reasons we've decided to start weaning. Kid's a bit on the puny side; apparently Mother's Milk ain't cutting it and no amount of feeding, pumping, or lactation consulting is going to remedy it. We've always supplemented a bit but on our pediatrician's recommendation we started adding formula daily when Will was 2 months old. I was hoping that it would add some much cherished chub to the lad but a few days ago we went to a breastfeeding clinic and discovered that he's still a fleaweight. The lactation consultant actually urged me to consider weaning. When a lactation consultant - a woman whose sole job is to keep you breastfeeding - recommends moving to formula, it's probably a good idea to listen. Unfortunately for me, it's hard not to drink the Kool-Aid when it comes to "Breast Is Best". There's no way not to feel smell failure when it comes to weaning prematurely. That said - and I admit this at the risk of the entire La Leche League showing up with pitchforks and breast pumps - I can't help but feel a tiny bit relieved at the thought of quitting. Breastfeeding has never been the soft focus, Hallmark experience I expected. Not that I don't love it... but I sort of don't love it. There's a lot less fuzziness than I thought there'd be, and a lot more yanking. A lot less caffeine and booze too. Then again, is squelching my baby's IQ really worth a latte? (Some days, absolutely, yes.) Anyway, the whole situation leaves me feeling torn. Perhaps motherhood is just one long exercise in that.