It’s My Party And I’ll Cry If I Want To
Yesterday marked the eleventy-hundreth time (approximately) I’ve thrown a party for one of my kids. It started with a kegger when Ben turned one (what?!? That is SO not trashy!) and persisted until he was ready to have a Kids Only party for himself. This is where I bow gracefully out of hosting and pay someone insane wads-o-cash to host the 10 kids somewhere OTHER than my house. Kids scare me.
Thankfully, by that time, Alex was ramping up to have a birthday party of his own for me to publicly express both my fetish for cakes and my fetish for encased meats.
And yesterday, in all it’s magnificent non-barbeque friendly weather was one of the best I’ve hosted yet. Especially since I didn’t have to stand shivering over the grill while it rained on my head. But whatever.
I don’t know if it’s the isolation factor of having a small baby–especially one that screams her head off in the car–or the fact that I’ve felt so unwell in the past year or so, or maybe because I’ve been dying to have something to celebrate without a …but… after it, but yesterday seemed especially full of The Awesome. The perfect mix of people, food and, of course, prescriptions.
Here is Amelia, in her fresh party outfit with her Uncle Paul:
Here is what Amelia thought of her dress:
You can practically hear her yell “MOOOOMMM, I look STOOOOPPID!” And then I took the dress OFF her.
Easter Dress: 1
And the moment I waited all week for:
The cake. The glorious cake. It was as tasty as it was classy. It also wasn’t as cool as last years cake, but they wouldn’t do the tiered cake order over the phone. And since said baby sucks to take in the car, I was not huffing my fat butt out there.
Oh well. Even if it didn’t have drug paraphernalia, at least it was classy.
Now for Part II of my II Part Post (doesn’t that look like it should be an alliteration?)
After Ben’s sensory issues wouldn’t allow me to nurse him, I developed a major complex about breastfeeding. Specifically, that it was something that I’d failed mightily at. I didn’t, of course, take into consideration that my CHILD might be the problem, which, of course, he was.
So Alex was born with hair on his back but I was the one with a chip on my shoulder. I was Going To Breastfeed Him, Dammit, At Any Cost. And I did. I got up every 1-3 hours every single night with him to nurse him. For a year. I nursed him at least once an hour every hour until he was one.
Despite my initial delight at HIS delight at my boobs, I had really mixed feelings about breastfeeding. On the one hand, I was very proud of myself that I was able to do something I’d been previously unable to do. On the other, though, I didn’t find the joy that others seemed to associate with it.
I’m not a touchy-feely person and although I like cuddling my kids, I did occasionally want my own personal space. And I longed for the day when I could wear scoop-necked shirts and not v-necked ones. I also longed for the day when I didn’t have to let my nipples hang out in the breeze constantly. I’m not modest, but damn, it got old.
So when I got pregnant with Amelia and finally figured out it might stick, I figured I’d breastfeed again, but not exclusively, and that I wouldn’t give myself a hard time if
1) She couldn’t do it
2) She occasionally got formula.
And, well, I guess the inevitable happened: she decided that nursing was too much work, just like Dr. Sears warned me about! I’d call this a Nursing Strike, but I think she’s just done with the boob. And I don’t have the luxury of time to pump. Or should I say properly, I don’t want to make the time to pump exclusively.
I sit here and try to remind myself of the positives: I can lose weight more easily, I can finally wear shirts that don’t expose my chesticles, I can wear bras that don’t snap open and shut, and I won’t smell like a milk factory constantly. My body will be my own for the first time in 3 years. These are all true.
But she is my last baby. This is the last time I’ll nurse anyone. And I am conflicted. I wasn’t ready to have her grow up so soon. I’m not ready to put away her tiny newborn clothes, pack them up for the NICU I’m donating them to, knowing that this is the last time one of my flesh and blood will inhabit them.
I hate endings, no matter how happy they are. Even if it means new beginnings.
For today, my heart, it is wearing a frowny-sad-face.