I can finally talk about it now. I saw, I conquered somewhat, and I’ve come out the other side without any serious injury, and my mental facilities intact for the most part. So while it hasn’t been the best week ever, not even close, it’s been descent, and that’s really all I could hope for considering.
If you’re a man you might want to just stop reading here. The details in this post will likely be foreign to you, and even if you are able to sympathize because of your spouse, you probably don’t want to hear about it from another woman. So be forewarned. This post will talk about things like hormones and achy breasts, and that’s just the beginning. By week’s end it would be so much more.
I decided it was time to wean my twenty month old daughter from feeding off my withered breasts. I couldn’t believe there was much milk left in there anyway, but she remained quite fond of them, and let me know this by stealing sips throughout the day. Like a Houdini of boobs she could help my breasts escape from the tightest, high-necked top, liberating my flesh for her own thirst-quenching pleasures. And she did this regardless of our public location.
So it was time. I began thinking of it a couple of months ago, but I held on to those sweet moments where she suckled in her sleep, reluctant to let go of my angelic, breastfeeding babe. The rest of the time I felt like her personal buffet dinner, and her every ten minute feeds (or rather sips) were wearing me thin.
Despite how long it had been since I gave birth to this last little girl my body had yet to resume its natural reproductive freedoms. I knew it was the prolonged breastfeeding keeping my ovulation at bay, and though I certainly didn’t mind, there was that strange part of me that worries about things like irregular shaped moles and swollen lymph nodes that wondered, shouldn’t you have started already?!
It was that same strange, maternal part of me that thought of adding another baby to my brood despite not having the necessary requirements to make procreation a possibility that desired the visit of my old monthly pal. I found my home full, but my quiver still lacking, and all I needed was the sign of returning menstruation to take my worries away.
I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I am a glutton for punishment, but that didn’t change my thought processes a bit. So with a nostalgic heart already grieving the ensuing end of the breastfeeding relationship with my toddler, I made up my mind to wean my child. And I would do it come Monday.
It seemed like a good idea to start at the beginning of the week as I anticipated the difficulties my baby would have in bidding her favorite boobies ado. Imagine my surprise when one day prior to our weaning debut I was startled at work by my old friend Flo.
After two and a half years without a period I was confronted with its return, and it was like not a day apart had passed between us. She was exactly the same. Unexpected, messy, too aggressive, and a pain in my ovaries. Sigh. Had I really thought I missed her?
Anyway, despite the resurgence of my ability to reproduce, I was determined to follow through with Operation Wean, and so began the brilliant decision to test my body to the ultimate limits of its hormonal endurance. Yes, I purposely decided to wean a baby while transversing through my first menstrual cycle in almost three years.
And so would begin a week of already achy breasts that were swelling to the size of generous melons. Melons made of steel with scary purple veins shooting across them. I had put lemon juice on my nipples to discourage my baby from drinking, and had convinced her that “Mommy’s boobies had gone bad.” I was stuffing cold cabbage leaves in my bra because I read that helped, and the ensuing lemon scented salad that filled the trash was making my three year old raise a brow. “What’s up with all this old, stinky lettuce Mom?”
My husband was coming home carrying chocolate bars, God bless him, and I couldn’t open a single link on Facebook since every story I came across drove me into hysterics. When my baby cried, I cried too, and my anger over my rock hard breasts did nothing to abate the pain. I had gained five pounds, and I couldn’t decide what was water weight, and what was stored milk.
Last night I woke in the middle of the night, and I realized immediately that I was laying on my side. I was instantly amazed. I was able to rest my side boob on the mattress without shrieking in pain, and as it hit me that my milk was finally drying up I thought I was going to cry. Actually, I’m really surprised I didn’t.
Today she hasn’t asked for boobie at all, not even once, and I realized how resilient babies really are. While she tried once or twice to breastfeed at first, in reality it had probably been harder on me than it had ever been for her.
I’ve made it to the end of the week, and I guess it wasn’t really that bad, although if you asked my husband, I’m not sure he’d agree. But I hope he would. I weaned a baby, I returned to the land of fertility, and I lived to tell the tale. I’ve tossed the cabbage, and I didn’t kill anyone. Maybe women are pretty resilient too.