I wanna play with your boobs

This is the line I hear at least ten times a day.

Some will be surprised that the words are not uttered by my husband or even a passing pervert, but an almost three year old boy. 

Tricky weaned about two or three months ago. We were down to one very short feed most days but when Bobbin popped on the scene what supply was there dropped right off and every time he fed it would hurt. It felt exactly like feeding newborn Tricks back when I had no real clue what I was doing and lovely case of golden nipples. We returned to cracked nipple central where my toes curled every time he'd ask for milk. Something had to give.

Despite being of the "never offer, never refuse" school of thought for weaning and a supporter of full-term breastfeeding, I started offering milk in a cup more and more. Under my breath I was shouting have-your-milk-in-a-damn-cup-and-leave-my-boobs-alone. It took a week and it was all over red rover. Or red nipples. Whatever.


For thirty-two(ish?) months, my breasts were used as a source of nourishment and comfort. In the later stages they became less about nutrition and, much like the flotation devices they are, more for when the day needed to be saved. Think ass-crack-of-dawn wake ups, the occasional cranky bed time or near-meltdown for a grand total of about five times a week. So basically any time when we all needed some sleep lest we go insane. Hooray for boobies.

Breasts as a source of nourishment... kind of.

These days though? They have transformed (back) in to fun bags.

If my chest is in sight, I hear it. "I wanna play with your boobs". Usually after he has plunged his hand down my top and grabbed a fist full of flesh.

He likes to cuddle them, squeeze them and of course jiggle them. He is obsessed with breasts. And I really hope you said that with the voice of Elaine Benes from Seinfeld.

I don't quite know what to do because we have tried everything we can think of. I had been pegging all my hopes on ignoring it, saying they were not for him any more because he's a big boy, telling him they were for Bobbin now etc.

It would even appear that physically stopping him and redirecting his attention elsewhere has done nothing other than introduce him to the fact that other women also have breasts. Luckily the groping has so far been constrained to family members, but I dread the day when he just lunges at a stranger and attempts to motorboat them.

Nothing has worked so far. Nothing! 

So help me, dear reader, what do I do?  Do I leave it and hope it is just his way of saying so-long to his old pals, or do I put my foot down? If you have any toddler weaning advice for me, my oft grabbed breasts would very much appreciate it.

Get your shit together

I really need to get my shit together, I'm 30 now, no excuses.

In the last few weeks days I've gone totally emo. I've been eating everything in sight and taking mopey, arty farty self-portraits. I've even been posting attention seeking, pathetic tweets in the hope that someone would say "you're not a completely worthless person". I phished for compliments... I hate it when people do that. Loathe it. Get over yourself, I think, see a bloody therapist and stop filling up my Twitter stream with your emo ramblings.

I am nothing if not a grade A hypocrite.

I am extroverted, in the true sense of the word. It doesn't necessarily mean a bright and bubbly, outgoing person, though I can be (Oscar worthy acting, remember? Meryl Streep took lessons from me), it means I rely on the energy of those around me. Being alone with my thoughts sends me in to a tailspin. I don't like my own company, never have. Perhaps it's why when I retreat, it's to Twitter... you're never alone when you have Twitter (spoken like a true geek).

I don't just take on the positive energy of those around me, but the negative as well. I soak in their emotions, like a warm bath, until I'm pruney, overwhelmed and feeling utterly hopeless. Their issues become my problems. Their loss becomes my heartache. Their desperation becomes my depression.

Part of myself that I hate, is the inability to compartmentalize and differentiate between myself and others. I don't just take on someone's emotions but I take on their personality as well. If I'm around you long enough, I start being you. That freaks the fuck out of a lot of people (not that I blame them, it would freak me out too), so, as a result, I keep my distance. Which means I'm back to my own, warped thoughts to keep me company.

It's a morose not-so-merry-go-round of trying to be near people then running away so I don't get too close. A tightrope balancing act that I'm yet to master, and there's no bloody net underneath to catch me. I'm sure there's a few more circus metaphors in there but I can't think of them right now.

Alcohol and twitter have become my crutch. Don't like your own thoughts? Go and read someone elses or drink until your own thoughts slur and you can no longer understand them. My saving grace is that Tricky is still breastfeeding and I know he'll be awake and wanting milk bright and early the next morning... but it kinda freaks me out that that is the only thing stopping me from completely annihilating myself some nights.

I've been actively encouraging him to wean lately, and it's partly so I can have my body back and put in it whatever I want, whenever I want to excessive levels. Who does that? Seriously. Sorry, kid, you can't have this nutritious, antibody filled liquid gold any more cos mama needs to get trashed.

So no, I don't have my shit together, not by a long shot. But, if I put edible glitter in my wine, then at least my shit sparkles. I'm like a goddamn unicorn or something.

 

Don't panic. Tomorrow I'll post a recipe and we can forget this ever happened. As you were.

To Wean or Not To Wean, That Is The Question

I haven't been sleeping. For about a week now I've managed to get only two - three hours a night thanks to my brain refusing to shut up. So when I couldn't sleep I wrote...

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

It's 11:22pm and I have to be up in six hours. But I can't sleep. My mind will not be quiet, my muscles will not relax.

The anxiety burns inside my chest and I lean over to Map Guy and tell him "My heart hurts". He knows what I mean.

He snuggles me close and offers words of comfort, asks me what I'm anxious about.

I rattle off a few things, most of which revolve around going to Blogopolis. I'm not anxious about meeting people this time (well not much), I'm losing sleep over the 3000 little things I need to do before Thursday. But the big one, the thought that has created a two week tension headache, is whether Tricky will wean while I'm away.

It's so late by the time I finish talking, only a few minutes later, he's fast asleep. Bastard. I wish I could slip away in to dreamland that easily.

At the moment Tricky and I have our special milky cuddles twice a day. My bookend baby takes relatively little milk, but what he gets instead is attentive, (mostly) quiet bonding time. Just he and I, our bodies warm against each other, drinking in each other's scent.

Chubby star fish hands grab all over me (Where's Mama's nose, Tricky?) and clench my shirt as if he's holding on for dear life. He'll look up at me and smile, giggle, then bury himself back in, not once dropping the nipple.

We've had a pretty good run with the whole breastfeeding caper. We did have some issues early on that saw me noticeably tense with dread when it was time for the next hourly feed. I would grit my teeth and feed him with tears rolling down my face thanks to the stabbing white hot razor blades of a staph infection.

But within a few months it all settled down... and it was something I could do anywhere, any time. Feed him; nurture him; comfort him instantly. It became something I could do well, and over some dark days the thought that I was actually good at something for once, buoyed me.

So how will I feel if my three days away sees him wean, perhaps a bit sooner than he was ready? I'm not sure. I know we've had a great run (almost 14 months) and that anything now is just icing on the cake... but still... still there is the feeling that I'm forcing him.

I apologise in advance to those going to Blogopolis... a lovely hormone shift awaits me and I don't know how I'll handle it.

When did your baby wean from the breast? How did you handle the hormone shift? Or didn't you notice it?