Adoptive breastfeeding, that is. I’ve decided to stop all the machinations I’ve gone through in order to nurse Zara. However, it isn’t the nursing that is getting to me. It’s the other crap I have to do, mainly the pumping. I am so tired of that goddamn breastpump.
I’ve been pumping since February of this year and I’ve had enough. I’ve used three different breastpumps, and still get disgusted by the nipple origami going on inside the breastshields. This feeling has been creeping up on me gradually. Each day I’ve found myself forcing myself to sit down and pump and each day it has gotten harder. I look at that damn pump with loathing. Even though I took it with me to China, I only managed to get myself to pump once during that entire week. Clearly my mind was rebelling against the stupid thing.
Yet without pumping, there is little little chance that I will produce an appreciable amount of milk for Zara since she is in daycare for most of the day. Nursing her in the morning and evening will not be enough stimulation to produce more than just a few drops…nowhere near the few ounces that I managed with the pump. And even if I added the supplementer (Ack! Don’t make me go back to that annoyance!), nursing only twice a day will not be enough. It is either pump or stop. I’ve reluctantly decided to stop.
I feel so guilty (what else is new?) about this decision, even though I’ve lasted longer at this venture than I ever expected to. The sad thing is that I enjoy nursing Zara! I love it when she is fussy and I put her to the breast and she nurses herself to sleep. It feels wonderful. I feel like a real mom.
I suppose that instead of my tendency toward self-recrimination and guilt, I should feel proud of what I have accomplished. Zara is a beautiful and healthy 6 month old baby girl with a sweet disposition. Some small part of who/what she is comes from my dogged determination to nurse her. I’ve given her some of the building blocks she has needed to grow strong and healthy. And I can continue to comfort nurse at will.
So put away the hair shirt and stop whipping yourself, Liana. You’ve done OK.
