The end of an era
Signe will be 8 months old tomorrow and I think our breastfeeding days are done.
I’m not sure what caused it exactly, whether it was the long weekend away where I let myself sleep through my usual 6 a.m. pumping session or the fact that she’s eating almost as much solid food these days as I do, but my milk supply has dwindled to practically nothing. And no amount of pumping and Fenugreek seems to help.
I’m both sad and relieved by this turn of events. When Signe wouldn’t go back to sleep after her 5:15 a.m. wake up this morning, despite nursing her twice, I deduced that her attempts to get milk from my breasts were about as productive as squeezing blood from the proverbial stone. I finally gave up, prepared a bottle of formula for GTB to give her, and left her room crying as she hungrily slurped it down. But then I walked into my bedroom, opened my underwear drawer, and gazed longinly at my non-nursing bras. It’s a terribly confusing set of emotions.
I love the idea of not pumping at work anymore.
I hate the idea of us not greeting each day with her nursing.
I had hoped to breastfeed until her first birthday, which might still be possible, but I think it’s unlikely. I’ve decided definitively to stop pumping at work. I’ll keep nursing her in the morning and at night. I hope that eliminating the pumping won’t interfere with my ability to produce enough milk to keep those a.m. and p.m. sessions, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
I keep telling myself that 8 months is a good run. She has gotten pretty much all of the antibodies she needs from me at this point. And really, I just nurse her now because I like it so much, which surprises me more than it surprises you, trust me. And I’ll definitely miss it.
But when I think of carrying one less bag to work, sleeping past 6 a.m. some mornings, drinking more than one glass of wine at a time without having to pump and dump, and finally being able to shed these last fifteen pounds, I get kinda giddy.