A few nights ago I was nursing Little G before bedtime as I always do. That little bundle of joy bit into my nipple so hard I actually yelped. I was unaware that I could make that noise. I instantly reprimanded her, which does no good because she is 10 months old and what does she know. She has bit me before but never like this. We got back to business and she bit me again. Something inside of me snapped.
I stuck her in the baby cage crib, marched downstairs and fixed her a bottle of formula. I had tried to supplement with bottles before and failed many many times. I had recently resigned myself to the fact that I would nurse Little G until I could start giving her cow’s milk after her first birthday.
I handed my husband the bottle of formula, wished him luck, and hopped in the shower. No surprises, he failed. I went back in there, feeling refreshed. I picked her up out of the crib, sat in the rocking chair, and began to sing Mike Posner craptacular single, “Baby Please Don’t Go.” When Little G calmed down, she drank the formula and then asked (well she had a temper tantrum) for more. Finally.
We woke up the next morning and I fixed her another bottle. She took it instantly. To be honest I was expecting more of a fight. I never intended to wean Little G cold turkey. But then I thought, “What if once she nursed again, she refused a bottle again?” I couldn’t take the chance. And so for the last three days, my breast-fed baby is now drinking formula.
Here’s the thing though. My body hasn’t gotten the memo and I am beyond engorged. You’re welcome. I know you needed the visual. It hurts to move and I am so sensitive to the touch that hugging and holding my children brings tears (of pain, not joy) to my eyes
Since I can no longer complain about what a drag nursing on demand is, I can now move on to bitching about washing baby bottles. It’s all about progress people.
Some Things Just Need Saying 