I am increasingly in favour of a revolution
Apparently while I have been in the trenches nursing my family through their various disagreeemnts, dramas and bouts of illness and teething the outside world has been up to shocking things. Like Floods in Australia and landslides in Brazil and the plan to sell off England's forests. GRRRRRRRR.
I cannot stress this enough really, down with that sort of thing!
On a much milder note, and without importance to the world at large, there have been upheavals on the home front.
My daughter is incomparably lovely (she laughs! she gurgles! if nothing bothers her she will fall asleep by herself!) so it feels churlish to do anything except sing her praises. On the other hand, I do find her hardcore lactivist stance both exhausting and irritating.
She thrashes in rage and seals her lips tightly and does everything possible to spurn the dummy because apparently only human flesh will do. My human flesh. Z has yet to offer up his nipple even though I've been trying to convince him that the grizzly latch-on is not a demand for nutrition and thus an equal-opportunity issue.
I reached my limit a few days ago and announced to my younger child that there will be no more feeding between the hours of midnight and 6am and told my husband that if he won't offer up his own nipple then he can put his manly muscles to work and help out by bouncing with her on the yoga ball until she settles back to sleep.
It is over a year since I have worn lingerie, or bras which cannot be summed up with the adjective 'utilitarian'. I never thought I would think nostalgically about underwire, but I do.
I am proud of my body for having been able to sustain my daughter. She is growing and she is plump and delicious. Clearly she is the picture of health and delightfulness and the poster child for exclusive breastfeeding.
I can't say that I haven't enjoyed our early morning feeding snuggles (her stroking my face gently and me often drifting back to sleep right alongside her) or that nursing her hasn't been a good excuse to watch all those episodes of Grey's Anatomy (I'm almost through Season 2) but I am tired and really really ready to be done.
Consequently, I've been trying to introduce solid food. This has been met with vague revulsion (mashed bananas), confusion (baby rice), polite interest (ground biscuit mixed with breastmilk) and outright horror and rage (formula).
It's rare that I can look back nostalgically on Matei's babyhood, but bless him at least he weaned like a champ.
I cannot stress this enough really, down with that sort of thing!
On a much milder note, and without importance to the world at large, there have been upheavals on the home front.
My daughter is incomparably lovely (she laughs! she gurgles! if nothing bothers her she will fall asleep by herself!) so it feels churlish to do anything except sing her praises. On the other hand, I do find her hardcore lactivist stance both exhausting and irritating.
She thrashes in rage and seals her lips tightly and does everything possible to spurn the dummy because apparently only human flesh will do. My human flesh. Z has yet to offer up his nipple even though I've been trying to convince him that the grizzly latch-on is not a demand for nutrition and thus an equal-opportunity issue.
I reached my limit a few days ago and announced to my younger child that there will be no more feeding between the hours of midnight and 6am and told my husband that if he won't offer up his own nipple then he can put his manly muscles to work and help out by bouncing with her on the yoga ball until she settles back to sleep.
It is over a year since I have worn lingerie, or bras which cannot be summed up with the adjective 'utilitarian'. I never thought I would think nostalgically about underwire, but I do.
I am proud of my body for having been able to sustain my daughter. She is growing and she is plump and delicious. Clearly she is the picture of health and delightfulness and the poster child for exclusive breastfeeding.
I can't say that I haven't enjoyed our early morning feeding snuggles (her stroking my face gently and me often drifting back to sleep right alongside her) or that nursing her hasn't been a good excuse to watch all those episodes of Grey's Anatomy (I'm almost through Season 2) but I am tired and really really ready to be done.
Consequently, I've been trying to introduce solid food. This has been met with vague revulsion (mashed bananas), confusion (baby rice), polite interest (ground biscuit mixed with breastmilk) and outright horror and rage (formula).
It's rare that I can look back nostalgically on Matei's babyhood, but bless him at least he weaned like a champ.