Self... Like?

Maybe.  Maybe not so much.

I know full well that I'm supposed to embrace and love and revere this post-baby body of mine.  I know it.  But it doesn't mean I actually feel those things.  In all honesty, I don't like my body at all right now.

Giving Up and Glad About It

So, as I type this, I'm sitting 8 inches from my breast pump bag, which is putting the baby and the dogs to sleep with its hypnotic whoosh-whoosh sounds.  I won't lie; it regularly puts me to sleep as I'm sitting up, nearing on midnight, for my last pumping session of the day.

Why pump?  Why not "just" breastfeed?  Two big reasons: Apparently, my nipples are junk and make it nearly impossible for Wyla to latch on.  I have to wear nifty little shields to make feeding her possible.  The other reason is that when it comes to feeding, Wyla oscillates between two modes - Sleepy Pie Can't Stay Awake, or Hangry Pacman Chomping and Thrashing (so. much. ouch.).  Neither way is effective at getting her belly full.

I've been feeding her expressed milk with bottles that mimic breasts, so that she won't forget how to latch.  But honestly, I almost never breastfeed her anymore.  Maybe once every couple of days at best.  And those bottles make such a mess (even with bibs, I have to change her onesie with almost every feeding) and make feeding her slow.  Which is the last thing I need when I'm sitting down to pump for 30 minutes every 2.5 hours.  But now?  I'm feeling like, why bother?  Why is it that I'm trying to keep her breast-ready for feeding?  Unfortunately, I can't get rid of my breast pump because I'll be relying on it when I go back to work in July.  So, I'm stuck with that bad boy.

So, I quit.  No more baby-on-boob action in this house.  If I'm being completely honest, I think about quitting the pump and breast milk altogether.  But, for now, I'll keep it up.  My goal is six months.  Only 4.5 more to go, right?