I've got a milk supply problem. The boobies aren't giving it out in the evenings.
This means that every evening (sometimes, randomly, it's fine) poor little Milo is sucking his little heart out and getting nada. He's upset, I'm upset, the dog's upset - it's not pretty. There's nothing I can do to make the milk come. So what I've done is pump the milk in the mornings, when I have more, and then Conrad has been feeding it to him when I don't have any.
This is not fun. For some reason I am STUBBORN not to feed our son formula. I don't have anything against people who formula feed, but for some reason, for me, breastfeeding Milo is a big deal. I want to breastfeed him for at least 6 months, and I don't want to feed him formula until then. I don't know why. Every time I see a health visitor or a doctor, they ask if he's formula or breastfed, and always seem really surprised that I'm purely breast feeding. I wonder why? Do I look like the kind of person that wouldn't want to breastfeed?
I really honestly do not thing that mothers who formula feed are different from breastfeeding mothers, I promise. Some women can not breastfeed, some women choose not to, but for me breastfeeding is synonymous with loving my son and caring for him. Giving formula almost feels like I'm failing or that I'm not providing what my son needs. Failing. Every time he's crying because I can't give him milk, it makes me so sad.
So I've been doing what they say - eating oats (home-made oatmeal cookies count, right?), pumping in the evenings after he's eaten to trick my body into making more the next night (although seriously... it's like milking a stone). But it's not working. I try to relax, and it doesn't work. Usually what happens is that I give him to Conrad and he cries his little heart out until I finally get some milk... this can take a while.
It's complicated, it's emotional. Breastfeeding is a whole world of emotions that I didn't expect.
But I may have to give in. I may have to give the poor starving boy a bottle of formula in the evenings. I may have to admit defeat. If it wasn't affecting him, I would try try try try try.. I love a challenge, and I'm determined to make this work: BUT I don't want my boy to be hungry. He needs his food.
Another unexpected parental emotional heart-wrenching practical problem.
Thursday, November 11
Thursday, November 4
To: Milo Phoenix Sharp
To Milo,
I am sat here at the table on your two month birthday, wanting to write something poignant for you. I want to be able to tell you how much our lives have changed for the better, and how the world is a better place for having you in it. How do you go about writing something poignant, though? I’m still sleep deprived (you still love your midnight feasts), and my hands are itching to get to the washing up, the laundry, the hoovering, petting the dog… this is what I normally do in the short nap breaks you take. You see, when you’re awake, you love to eat.
But recently, you love to smile, look up at me and just have a think. I love that you now know who I am, that you quieten when you see me or when you hear my voice. I know I’m the only one that you really hang out with these days, and I hope that I’m helping you get to know the world properly. I like to sing to you, I sing nursery rhymes that I hope one day you’ll sing along too – you seem to especially like incy bincy spider – this may be my imagination. But at the moment, you follow my hands with every movement and at the end you give a little smile as if to say ‘again! Again!’
Now it’s easy to say that the last two months has gone by quickly – I guess it has. People keep saying that I should enjoy this precious time while it’s here because it will go all too quickly. I understand that, and I appreciate it, but it panics me slightly. I wonder, am I enjoying this moment enough? So what I’m going to do is not listen to them, but listen to you. You and me have a good thing going. I’ll still love you in ten years time, in twenty years time, when I’m dropping you off to school, when you’re saying your first words. I think we’re enjoying each other’s company just enough – and we can look forward to the future, we can be in the moment, but we just have to live our lives the way we are living it, I’m sure.
There is so much for you to learn, and so much for me to show you. Yesterday you had your first immunizations. I’m sorry – I know they hurt. And afterwards, you had a fever and all you wanted to do was sleep on my chest. I couldn’t help but be happy that I could soothe you, that you wanted to be with me when you were sick. I know there’s not much choice, but I love you for it already. Like I said, we have a good thing going.
There’s this crazy dog, Snoopy, that doesn’t really understand that you’re a human being yet. One day you’ll be able to ride on his back and pull his ears, and he will love you – right now, I think he thinks you’re in the way. He likes to lick your head, I think he’s still sussing you out. As soon as he understands, he will love you. He is already pretty protective of you anyway.
So, this poignant letter I wanted to write – it’s difficult because 1. My brain isn’t functioning enough to really truly say what’s in my mind and heart 2. You are so much a part of me and my life that it feels almost pointless writing it down – your importance and my love for you is just here – there’s no real describing it. 3. I wonder who I’m writing it for: for me? For people who will read it? For you? I don’t want to be writing for the sake of writing.
Month 2: Milo, I love you. You are crazily the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You are already sweet in nature, loving, delightful, happy, trusting, beautiful, inquisitive…. You love your father. He loves you. There is nothing else like the love in his eyes when he is looking at you. I am so proud of our family, I am already so proud of you. I want to be able to provide as much love, creativity, happiness, understanding of the world, openness, and show you that you truly can be whatever and whoever you want to be. Nothing can stop you. Go with your heart and your mind. Being yourself can only bring good things.
I am sat here at the table on your two month birthday, wanting to write something poignant for you. I want to be able to tell you how much our lives have changed for the better, and how the world is a better place for having you in it. How do you go about writing something poignant, though? I’m still sleep deprived (you still love your midnight feasts), and my hands are itching to get to the washing up, the laundry, the hoovering, petting the dog… this is what I normally do in the short nap breaks you take. You see, when you’re awake, you love to eat.
But recently, you love to smile, look up at me and just have a think. I love that you now know who I am, that you quieten when you see me or when you hear my voice. I know I’m the only one that you really hang out with these days, and I hope that I’m helping you get to know the world properly. I like to sing to you, I sing nursery rhymes that I hope one day you’ll sing along too – you seem to especially like incy bincy spider – this may be my imagination. But at the moment, you follow my hands with every movement and at the end you give a little smile as if to say ‘again! Again!’
Now it’s easy to say that the last two months has gone by quickly – I guess it has. People keep saying that I should enjoy this precious time while it’s here because it will go all too quickly. I understand that, and I appreciate it, but it panics me slightly. I wonder, am I enjoying this moment enough? So what I’m going to do is not listen to them, but listen to you. You and me have a good thing going. I’ll still love you in ten years time, in twenty years time, when I’m dropping you off to school, when you’re saying your first words. I think we’re enjoying each other’s company just enough – and we can look forward to the future, we can be in the moment, but we just have to live our lives the way we are living it, I’m sure.
There is so much for you to learn, and so much for me to show you. Yesterday you had your first immunizations. I’m sorry – I know they hurt. And afterwards, you had a fever and all you wanted to do was sleep on my chest. I couldn’t help but be happy that I could soothe you, that you wanted to be with me when you were sick. I know there’s not much choice, but I love you for it already. Like I said, we have a good thing going.
There’s this crazy dog, Snoopy, that doesn’t really understand that you’re a human being yet. One day you’ll be able to ride on his back and pull his ears, and he will love you – right now, I think he thinks you’re in the way. He likes to lick your head, I think he’s still sussing you out. As soon as he understands, he will love you. He is already pretty protective of you anyway.
So, this poignant letter I wanted to write – it’s difficult because 1. My brain isn’t functioning enough to really truly say what’s in my mind and heart 2. You are so much a part of me and my life that it feels almost pointless writing it down – your importance and my love for you is just here – there’s no real describing it. 3. I wonder who I’m writing it for: for me? For people who will read it? For you? I don’t want to be writing for the sake of writing.
Month 2: Milo, I love you. You are crazily the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You are already sweet in nature, loving, delightful, happy, trusting, beautiful, inquisitive…. You love your father. He loves you. There is nothing else like the love in his eyes when he is looking at you. I am so proud of our family, I am already so proud of you. I want to be able to provide as much love, creativity, happiness, understanding of the world, openness, and show you that you truly can be whatever and whoever you want to be. Nothing can stop you. Go with your heart and your mind. Being yourself can only bring good things.
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