Friday 29 June 2018

Breaking up with breastfeeding



In the words of The Walker Brothers (because that’s how current I like to be with my musical references), it’s so very hard to do.

SO hard.

Or at least that’s how I’m finding calling time on my relationship with breastfeeding Teddy.



Before Ted was born I was pretty matter of fact about the prospect of nursing him – either I’d get along with it or I wouldn’t. I had bottles and a steriliser at home as back up, and much as I liked the idea of giving it a go I wasn’t going to lose sleep if it didn’t work out.

But when the little man arrived a born guzzler, breastfeeding and I hit it off right away. There was the odd hiccup initially, but then what new courtship is without them? (Click here for more on that.)

Given time, things ran steady. And aside from a brief ruckus at the onset of weaning when I behaved like a woman scorned for a day or two, it’s all been pretty wonderful.

I chose and was able to breastfeed, but I’m forcing myself to stop.

Why throw in the towel now, I hear you ask? After all, it’s perfectly normal to breastfeed alongside solid foods beyond your baby’s first birthday – in fact, the World Health Organization encourages it beyond the age of two if you’re both up for it.

Honestly? If I could, I would. I’d happily ring in the anniversaries.

It’s not that my milk supply is in decline, nor that Teddy is getting fed up of having a boob thrust in his face (quite the opposite, actually).

It’s because time is almost up on my maternity leave and my expected return to work date is less than two months away – a prospect so gut-wrenching it takes my breath away.

So it dawned on me with weighty reality that soon I won’t be around to tend to Teddy’s every milk craving, and that’s something I need to act on now. Taking away his mother and her help-yourself drinks cabinet in one fell swoop seems too cruel.

D-Day is pencilled in for when Ted will be 10 month’s old – exactly a month before my mat-leave bubble bursts (to allow for a little wiggle room should things run over a tad). For the last few weeks I’ve been paring back his daytime feeds, turning a blind eye to his yearning gaze as I pack away my boobs and offer up a bottle or finger food instead (the NHS advises replacing dropped feeds with formula until baby turns one: read the guidelines here).

And it’s been OK.

Ted’s taking it pretty well. Mr R is excited for the day my cleavage is no longer referred to as ‘a snack’. And being able to wear lingerie more flattering than cat-flap maternity bras is, I grant you, a novelty.

But I’m clinging on to those night feeds. A time to snuggle up with my boy, squish him in extra close and breathe in his scent as he gulps back what his mama made him. I don’t mind what time it is, I crave these feeds as much as he does. Emotionally and physically…

Because BOY does it hurt when you start to drop feeds while things are still in full flow. In the first week of Operation Less Breast I found myself frantically pacing the house, engorged boob in hand, looking for something – anything – to feed. The dog looked worried…

I’d disposed of my breast pump prematurely, which left me no option other than to retreat to a hot shower and some desperate hand expressing. Too many feeds dropped in quick succession. Lesson learned.

As my health visitor promised, things are becoming calmer, less uncomfortable… We’re down to just a couple of feeds now and I’m noticing Teddy depending on me less, as I know he should.

But once it’s over, it’s over. No going back for old time’s sake.

Breastfeeding, like a summer fling, will become a brief encounter for me to cherish.

And while I’m all for clean break ups and moving forward, I’m going to need to mourn this one first – at least for a little while.


How did you find stopping breastfeeding? Emotional? Liberating? Or are you in it for the long haul? Share your experiences in the comment box below…





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