Despite my belief that fed is best, and it doesn’t matter how the food is delivered, this week is all about breastfeeding, so I thought I’d share our tale. I say our, because I was in no way in it alone, and there was a certain hungry baby boy involved.

It started out well – out he came and just like that he got it. ‘Great!’ I thought. LOL.

Just a day later, still in hospital, there I was crying to the nurse that it hurt like HELL. Manhandling my then sizable assets, she showed me a few tricks and positions and off we went.

But I battled.

When it was good, it was so good. He ate beautifully, and grew. A lot.

But when it was bad, it was SO bad. Cracks. Blood. That first suck pain that just comes out of nowhere and tingles all the way down your spine. Oi vey. That was hard.

And, while I produced (right word? Seems a bit agricultural) a sizable amount of milk, it just stopped keeping the little guy full. He guzzled it down, and then cried for more just an hour and a half later. It wasn’t a growth spurt. It just wasn’t enough.

So when, nearly 4 months in, after having a bit of formula on a Dad’s Day Out, the little guy started refusing the boob, I didn’t feel too sad. I didn’t feel like I’d failed as a feeder, or that we were now separated. It’s hard to feel those things you think you should feel when your baby is so happy to be full. And you start to get a bit of your body back.

JOKES! That’s not a thing. Your body is never yours again after a baby. Scared. Stretched. Marked. ‘Deflated’ in areas. That’s just par for the course. As is the transformation from carrier to climbing apparatus, chew toy, and my personal favourite – thing-to-be-pulled-apart. Sorry, hair. We’ll work on you when he loses interest in you.

Anyway, that’s my tale. What’s yours?

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