Confessions of a Weaning Weenie

I once heard someone say that the intensity of labor prepares you for the intensity of breastfeeding. Maybe, but the difference is, I was only in labor for 10 hours. I have been breastfeeding for over two years. The first time my daughter latched on and really got to work after my milk had come in, I felt like I wanted to jump out of my skin. Like that scene in the movie, "Underworld" when the blond vampire realizes there is a lycan in her house and leaps onto the ceiling and hisses like a cat. Yep, that's exactly how I felt.
After the first week or two, it got better. I could really get in to the Earth Mother thing, and was proud to be nourishing my child, providing her with the best possible sustenance. And my breasts were still looking relatively normal. Now, I need the most supportive underwire to cantilever them up to where they ought to be, and plenty of lace to restore them to something of their former glory. Oh, and they were glorious!
The first hint that the whole thing was going down hill was when Gemma started biting me. Prior to that moment, I couldn't imagine a scenario when a parent would curse an infant. Surely that is reserved for hookers and dirtbags. Nope, it's all butterflies and roses, until a brand new tooth clamps down on an already overworked nipple. Then all the beautiful pictures of mother and babe turn to ashes. And to rub salt in the wound, my daughter thought my reaction was the funniest thing in the world. Clearly, she had inherited her parents' sadistic sense of humor.
She doesn't bite me anymore, but it's almost a shame, because then I would have a justifiable reason to pack it in (or in this case, them). I just can't bring myself to wean just because I am sick of being awakened several times in the night by my insatiable daughter, because she plays "Tune in Tokyo" with the other nipple when we are nursing on the couch, or because I hate being the only one in the house who can answer the call of "BOOBIE!!!!".
I've gotten all sorts of advice (solicited and unsolicited). It ranges from the totally unhelpful, "just stop" to the tried and failed, "wear a shirt to bed". (I could wear a parka to bed, and Gemma would find a way to burrow under there and hijack my breasts). I've also heard "skip a feeding everyday until you are down to zero." Well that is just asinine from the perspective of an on-demand nurser.
So, here I am, still nursing away and dreaming of the day when I can keep my boobies to myself. It will probably happen right around the time I have another kid. Damn.

A Challenge Answered

I wasn't planing on starting a blog when I woke up this morning. When I woke up this morning, my first thought was, "Man, my nipples are killing me!" - but that's another post.

No, I started this blog because of a challenge from an old friend. Granted, it sounded more like an assignment than a challenge, but I suppose that is to be expected since he is now a college professor. This whole thing started after penning a list of 16 random things about myself on Facebook. Here is a little story that was far to long to make the list, but still one of the funniest things that has ever happened to me. (Of course, it wasn't funny at the time.)

My best friend Katie and I moved to a three-bedroom apartment just out of college. We needed a roommate to help with the rent, and we weren't too picky. We ended up with Karl (names have been changed to protect the moronic). Karl had one of those white-boy fros that only a select few can really pull off - sadly, Karl was not one of them. His hair looked like a cross between a mad scientist and a poodle with a skin problem. Puzzlingly, he kept volumizing shampoo in the shower.

Anyway, when Karl moved in, he came with an enormous frozen turkey. There was no room in our minuscule freezer to put it, we decided to defrost it in the refrigerator and have a nice "welcome to the apartment" dinner. Now, I love to cook, so this was an unexpected windfall - a 20 lb turkey just dying for some attention. I envisioned the table laden with a golden roast bird, stuffing and mashed potatoes. I would get to take my much loved, but rarely used Cuisinart out of storage! I would get to spend a leisurely day puttering around in my new kitchen! Fantastic! We planned the dinner for that Tuesday at 3 o'clock. I had to work a dinner shift at the restaurant where I was a server, but should have plenty of time to get to work, well-fed and glowing from what was surely going to be the best meal I had ever cooked.

Tuesday morning arrived. I got up early and prepared the stuffing. I seasoned the bird, and lovingly gave it a melted butter massage. I stuffed it and trussed it and heaved it into the roasting pan. Just as I put it in the oven, the electricity went out. Not just a blown fuse - every light in the apartment. Bloody. Freaking. Hell. Okay, okay, just a temporary set back. I wedged the turkey back into the refrigerator and closed the door. I started pacing. I checked to see if the traffic light on the corner was working to get a feel for the scope of the problem. Nothing. I paced and paced and paced and muttered and fretted and paced some more. I paced my way to 4:30 PM, and had to set out for work. Literally, the second I took my car keys off the hook, the power came back on. I left for work in a foul mood.

I don't remember much about that shift, except rationalizing that if I could get out of there early, my dinner would be salvaged. It was okay to eat at midnight, right? We were young and foolish, a midnight dinner party had a certain charm, right? Well, I did make it out of there at a reasonable , even after the bastard of a manager in charge found fault with all of my sidework and made me do it over.

When I got home all ready to prepare my feast, Karl greeted me with a casual, "Oh, I cooked the turkey for you, it's in the fridge." Asshole. But that's not all, it actually gets better. Or worse, depending on your perspective.

I trudged into the kitchen to make myself a consolatory turkey sandwich. As soon as I opened the refrigerator door, it literally came off in my hand and landed on my big toe. The whole door. The whole 20-pound refrigerator door. All of the improperly stored eggs, and half the collection of condiments in the door crashed to the floor and exploded.

I cried myself to sleep.