It appears as though my era of a lactating female is drawing slowly to an end. Alex has decided that the quicker food dispersal system is not, in fact, garnered by my breast but by regular food stuff. To say that he is underwhelmed by taking a bottle (which would be the easiest way to use up the approximately 2,308 gallons of frozen breast milk I currently am storing in my freezer) is a gross understatement. He hates the bottle with an intense passion, which I cannot blame him for.
Despite my well-documented conflicting feelings on breast feeding in general (it’s more of a scientific oddity to me. You mean they do THAT? WEIRD!), I had assumed that I would feel more saddened by this inevitability than I am. After all, Alex has kicked my ass so thoroughly with his craptastic sleep patterns that I am not sure if I will ever be strong and/or brave (or stupid enough, really) enough to try and have another one, and three kids seems like a ton of kids (not to mention the fact that I would have to buy another car and grow a couple of extra arms). Even if I do have another one, I am not positive if I would breastfeed again (at least for as long as I have with Alex), as I’m underwhelmed by having to be tethered to a child all day, every day.
Please don’t send the Breastfeeding Mafia after me. I have no problems whatsoever with people who breastfeed for years. It’s just not who I am. And you know what? Being a parent is a lot of not being able to be who I am.
Seriously, if I were alone in the house, I can all but assure you that I would not watch either Elmo’s World on repeat OR PBS Kids all day. Nor would I opt to listen to Raffi, have to remove all swear words from my vocabulary, or take 30 second showers while feverishly praying that my children are not eating each other.
Am I bitching about making these personal sacrifices for my children? No, not at all. It comes with the territory of being a parent, and I am accustomed to it, and rarely get on the cross about it. But to me, breastfeeding is just another one of those things that strips me of all of my me-ness, and aside from doing it for the first couple of months, which is a sacrifice I would probably make again for the health benefits, I’m not sure I’d be willing to do it all over again.
Sure, there are health benefits to the mother (apparently) like losing those pesky baby pounds that I was just positive I was going to melt away along with my milk, but oops! psych! not so much. Hell, without eating supplemental junk food, I find it next to impossible to eat all of the extra calories that are required for my metabolism not to shut down.
Some people are overweight because they eat too much, but I am overweight (currently) because I didn’t eat enough. I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM, PEOPLE! (That always sends me into gales of laughter when I use this phrase. Maybe I should have shirts made that proclaim this. Then I’d be truly cool).
Until I stop breastfeeding, I have embarked on a new diet, one that doesn’t have me counting Points (but is still Weight Watchers), because I have no idea how many freaking calories I need anymore. It’s essentially a low fat, low sugar, low flour diet, and I’m finding it pretty easy to follow, thankfully. But it, of course, has one side effect that I’d never planned for: extreme flatulence.
That’s right, folks, I have now surpassed my husband, the former reigning King of All Farts, and have rightly claimed the Queen of The Rank Ass as my new title. Now I am the member of the family who can, in a single emission, clear an entire room with my suffocating farts. My new-found power is exhilarating, I am heady in my own strength, drunk on my own force…
Hey, where’d everyone go?