Continuing on from my last post about moving house. As you know it was a stressful/frustrating/want to stab myself (or anyone who ventured close enough) in the eye kinda day.
You would think that once we finally finished off all we were going to do that day and did the final drive to the new place to relax and get take-out, all the feelings of hate and murder would just wash away. Well, no, no they did not. My friends, things took a turn for the worse. You didn’t think they could get any worse? Neither did I, but worse they did get.
During the afternoon of frustration, I tried to nurse T a few times, but he decided that he didn’t feel like it and was more happy to just bite my poor tender pregnant nipple. And my shoulder, fingers, toes, leg, nose – anything he could sink his teeth into really. Teething is such a joy. This was not unusual, as he had been pretty bitey of late, but usually he would reserve using his chompers until the END of the boob feed.
I didn’t think too much of it, after all there was a lot going on to distract him with all the moving furniture and the non-cleaning and the sitting on the floor in an empty room trapped by oven cleaner fumes wafting down the hall way (if you don’t get it, see this post). I would want to bite the person responsible for holding me captive in such a predicament too, if I was a baby .
We got ‘home’ finally with our Red Rooster, woofed down some tucker, pulled up the port-a-cot, gave T a quick bath and then settled in for his bed time boob. BITE. Ouch. Why, Theo? Why? Surely you must want some boob, you haven’t had any for most of the day, and surely you must want to go to sleep so I can drop dead from exhaustion.
Try again. BITE. Wait for a few mins and try again. BITE. WTF?!
‘D, take the baby,’ says I, before running off to have a sob on the bed. Breathe in. Breathe out. OK, composed now.
This time, I take T to feed in the quiet of his bedroom instead of the lounge room. There is no way he can resist yummy boob in his quiet bedroom, right? BITE. BITE. BITE
Dump T on D and run off to wail, howl and scream into my pillow. Everything and everything crashing down all around. All the moving stress, all the frustration, all the throbbing bite marks exploding in my heart. D tentatively pokes his head into the bedroom and asks what he can do. ‘I don’t knowwwwwwww waaa waaa waaaa!’ I sob. He asks if I want him to defrost some milk from the freezer. ‘I don’t knowwwwwwwww waaa waaa yes, no , I don’t care, whatever, ok.’ I admit defeat, thinking that there is no way it is going to work anyway. T fucking hates bottles. Mother-in-law has to give him my milk from a spoon when she babysits.
He guzzled it down. FROM A BOTTLE PEEPS! 100mL in 2 seconds flat and was looking for more. I defrosted another 100mL bag which he also guzzled and then another 90mL which he drank and was content enough to go to bed. Damn, the kid was starving.
After this I sank into the couch and died a little inside. I fetched my pump and sat down to express all the milk I had stoed up in my boobs during the afternoon and evening. 20mL. 20 measly little mLs. No bloody milk my friends. I guess that is what he was trying to tell me with all the biting.
I tried to give him boob in the morning. BITE. Crap. Last bag of breastmilk. No more milk. I pumped and got a little and went out to do what every nursing mother doesn’t want to do – buy formula. How freaking hard is it to choose which formula to buy? Do I buy the pro or the gold or the pro gold or the plus or the plus gold or the pro plus?
Anyway, as it turned out T took to the bottle and formula with gusto. The pregnancy had officially dried me up and my milk had begun to turn back to colostrum. I knew that it had been diminishing somewhat but wasn’t expecting it to dry up completely so soon. I think the stress of the move finished me off. T had been a bit of a miserable grump for a few weeks prior and we put it down to teething. I actually now think that I was starving the poor little dude. Once he was getting a nice full belly again he chilled out and became so much more content and happy.
Once I saw the change in him and realised that it was time to move on and he needed the extra nutrition that I could no longer give him, I made peace with the change. My little doodle is thriving on formula now as he was once thriving on breastmilk. I did the best I could for him and I am proud of myself.
As an added bonus, I have discovered that there is a certain freedom that comes with being a formula feeding mum. My boobs are mine again until LSP arrives and therefore, so am I. If I need to go out for a bit and leave T with D, I don’t need to race home for his next feed. Hell, I can even sleep in and D can do the morning shift. He have settled into a nice system – you know I love systems – I get up with T weekdays and D gets a little extra rest in before work, you know, because he works soooo hard (insert sarcasm – ummmm, I work too) but on the weekends we both get a big sleep in. He gets Saturday sleep in and I get Sunday sleep in. Works for me!
I don’t have any photos of T on the bottle so I will leave you with this instead.