Friday, January 6, 2012

No more boob smoking

When I quit smoking four years ago, it wasn't planned. I didn't dwell on how I should savor that last cancer stick, didn't pick a special quit date or progressively try to smoke less, I decided one day that I was no longer going to be a smoker and that was that.

I think the same thing might've happened to me tonight with Dylan's breastfeeding--although I can't be sure without seeing where this night leads. I was nursing him on the couch and he fell asleep so I brought him up to his room, his bed--not our family bed mind you--read him three stories, tucked him in with his Oomfy owl, and made the mental decision that I would lie with him but there would be no nursing.

He fussed. He rolled around. He cried. At one point he laid across my stomach and tried to nurse on my hand. I didn't know if I should laugh because the feeling of his little tongue on the back of my wrist was so darn adorable, or if I should cry hormonal tears for putting my sweet boy through this.

He's asleep now. I am wearing a tight tank top under my shirt to remind sleeping me that I don't want him to nurse overnight. I'm hoping that I can be strong and not give into the urge to feed him because he'll sleep later or to soothe my engorged boobs.

I didn't savor our last time nursing. I think this is how I have to say goodbye to it all, no dwelling on what we'll both be missing out on. I also haven't had a menstrual period since December of 2009 and I am not looking forward to welcoming that Bitch back. My boobs are going to hurt, he's going to be crushed, I'm preparing myself for a sobfest (and Dylan will probably cry, too), but it's time. This is for the best. He's old enough. He's ready.