I’m at that lovely point in motherhood once again. It’s the point where breast feeding becomes more of a burden than a joy, and although I feel that weaning would be a good thing, the mother guilt sets in and makes me feel like crud for not whipping out a breast at Maggie’s whim and fancy until she leaves for college. I think that if, perhaps, Maggie’s whim and fancy could align itself next to my whim and fancy we’d be ok. See, I really enjoy nursing her to sleep at night; I don’t enjoy nursing her back to sleep sixteen times during the night when she wakes up whining, crying and slapping me. I enjoy being able to soothe her in overwhelming situations, but I’m not particularly fond of the tugging on, lifting up of, and mad attempts to unbutton my shirt in the middle of church, or at the store, or pretty much any time I try to talk to someone a little bit unfamiliar, like the UPS guy. It’s endearing and embarrassing all at once.

Not to mention that this extended breast feeding gives me a trump card for all of the other mothering areas that I’m not so great at. I can look at the house in a mess or catch my children sneaking cookies for breakfast and cancel out all those negative effects with the single fact that I have lactated for over fifteen months now, people, so where’s my maid and my medal? According to the parenting mags and the Attachment Parenting gurus, I So Totally Rock. They don’t see my short temper or my increasingly expanding rear since I’ve started eating cookies for breakfast just like the kiddos. They only see my boobs and my baby in bed, the baby in bed who is very soon to be the baby in her own bed, sharing a room with her brother who is not happy about it.

Ugh. Anyway, Maggie is adjusting slowly to the no nursing rule. She has even made it through three nights without nursing. She didn’t like them, but she has learned to grab her sippy cup if she was thirsty and to beat me around the face and kick me in the bladder if she just wanted comfort. My reward for all of this is a rapidly expanding chest. By the end of today I should have some very impressive decolletage going on. If it weren’t for the stretch marks I could abandon my good senses and pose for a nudie magazine. I am just hoping that they start deflating soon.

Weaning Jonas wasn’t a pretty picture. He was eleven months old and ready to be done. I told him no once and he was so thrilled with his new cup (or “porta-boob” as I’m sure he thought of it) he never asked again. This did hurt my feelings a bit, after all, nearly a year of nursing and no sadness? No regrets? I weaned him cold turkey and within one day was in a lot of pain from my hugely engorged breasts that had missed six feedings. It was right before Chris left for basic training, so our last few days together were spent packing, me with an ace bandage wrapped around the still growing, deformed cantaloupes where my breasts used to be, and on top of all that, I had a head cold so severe my entire face was raw and chapped. I’m shocked Chris wanted me back after his training.

I’m hoping that the engorgement will be less severe this time. It seems that way already because I did a more gradual weaning. I know that if it gets too painful I can just let Maggie nurse for a bit, but that just confuses her. I’d use my breast pump, but someone borrowed it and never gave it back.

I’m really hoping that at the end of this, when all is said and done, that my body will realize that it can lose some weight. Both times I have nursed I have been totally unable to lose weight. This time, I’ve even gained a little. I feel three months pregnant. I even took a pregnancy test just to check if maybe, just maybe, there was a logical answer to the size of my thighs, but it was negative, so apparently I’m just fat. I think a big part of this problem stems from the fact that when I’m nursing full time, I’m ravenous. Now that I’m only nursing part time, I’m still eating the same amount. I need to develop some self control, put a lock on the fridge and go for a run.

Aren’t you glad you stopped by my blog today? So many lovely images of body-image loathing, and so many wishy-washy feelings. That’s me, a fat, wishy-washy, engorged, guilty almost non-nurser. May there be a light at the end of my tunnel soon!