Heavy Cloud But No Rain

I finally mustered the courage to check the ol’ boobs in the shower today. After some hesitant squeezing and yanking, I believe they’re all clear. I totally forgot to check for lumps as usual, but I must say I’m relieved. And a bit sad. And tired.

Of course, the parched, deflated pouches with a traffic jam of stretch marks leading to the blackholes areolas should’ve given me a clue. But I needed to be sure, just in case my resolve weakened or I unconsciously lifted my shirt to soothe Nibbles at an ungodly hour in the night.

Although I’ve always embraced the pregnancy squiggles etched on my stomach as battle scars, as memories of Nibbles’ first home and of a time that was mine and Nibbles’ alone, I can’t seem to fall in love the overripe, shrivelled mangoes that I shove into helpless bras that fail to understand them.

Then again, my tummy pre-pregnancy was certainly no six-pack; to say nothing of the love handles that gave away my vulnerability towards chocolate. But the breasts? Well, they were practically the only “assets” I had, untouched by the cruel Middle Eastern sun and depression. Those assets reached their peak value when they were the sole source of nutrition and comfort for my newborn Nibbles. No lingerie is going to compete with that.

I’ll admit, it was hell to begin with. I swore by every blister on my shocked nipples that somebody needed to be shot – the lactation consultants, the formula makers, the “well-meaning” folks, the bloggers, people that talked, people. This went on for some glorious months, and just when the infamous latch was zoning in, enter the Breast Pump. I clearly blocked out a lot of the unpleasantness related to the frozen bottles of milk that smelled like rust when thawed, because I went from counting days and hours to Nibbles’ first birthday to never wanting to stop nursing. Yes, I’d become the this-is-the-most-beautiful-experience-ever mom that needed to be shot.

Sure, there were days when I just wasn’t up to it. Days when I really needed more than 3 hours of uninterrupted sleep, days when I needed to work, when I needed to take a long shower without rushing out to help Nibbles fall asleep, days when I needed to lie down on my back and not sideways, days when I needed a little more than an occasional glass of wine (ok, a lot more), days when I simply wanted my boobs to be mine.

They said if you’re not really into it, you should stop. Well, screw ‘em (as you may have guessed, they were amongst those that needed to be shot), for the very thought of stopping forever made me frightened. Yes, scared that my Nibbles did not really love me or know me as an entity separate from my boobs. I’d seen the way he looked at them, squeezed them, held them and even talked to them. And the hugest grin on his face when he was satisfied? I couldn’t imagine not seeing that again.

But I did stop. It’s been a month now, and I feel completely numb. The boobs and Nibbles are bit of a wreck though. They lie scrunched up and lifeless as Nibbles suffers from terrible sleep terrors. Maybe it is the nature of a sleep terror that he refuses to be comforted and fights back fiercely when I try to hold him, but there’s something in his anger that speaks otherwise. And I remain nothing but a silent spectator, watching my baby patch his wings after I pushed him off the nest.

Papa do Preach

This evening, I had the hardest time getting Nibbles to sleep. He’d nurse for a few minutes, doze off, then start crying all of a sudden. All I did was thrust the silver bullet (my boob) back into his face till he passed out again. This routine went on for a bit, and a tired Big Byte walked in.
BB: “What’s wrong with Nibbles? Trouble sleeping?”
NP: “Dunno. He ate well, drank milk too…I think” *pinches areola to check supply and squirts milk all over the place*
BB: “Whoa!” *ducks* “Yes, there’s enough milk.”
NP: “Maybe it’s a ear infection? Or he’s teething”
BB: *rolls eyes after hearing default diagnoses for nth time* “Why’s he kicking around so much?”
NP: “Oh! That’s his new thing. He enjoys it. I think it’s kinda cute…”
BB: *starts massaging Nibbles’ legs* “Maybe they’re hurting. He’s been standing all day, no?”
NP: “Hmmm…”

Duh! Nibbles finally settled down, continued to feed in peace and fell fast asleep. He has been so excited with his ability to stand, that he even tries to feed standing. Of course his lil’ legs must be overworked.

So much for mother’s instinct.

Battle of The Boobs

My right boob is on strike. Seriously! She absolutely refuses to cough up milk for poor Nibbles, except for a tease once in a while. Could this be because I spend a disproportionately large amount of time typing with my right hand while Nibbles nurses on the left? Aaaargh! Just when I thought I could finally start enjoying the whole breastfeeding experience. “Natural, bonding experience for mother and child”? What rot! That’s exactly the kind of expectation that makes a new mom feel inadequate, worthless and pathetic – as if there aren’t enough triggers for a breakdown anyway.

I visited my pregnant pal the other day. There she was, rubbing her taut, stretchmarkless belly, as I forced my boob into a squirming Nibbles.

She: “I can’t wait to feed my baby!” *sigh*

NP: “Wha…? So you plan to breastfeed, eh?”

She: (enthusiastically) “Oh yes“

NP: “Hmmm…cool. Cool. uh, just remember, it’s not supposed to hurt, ok?”

She: “I know that. It’s the most natural thing in the world – a mother feeding her child”. (stares dreamily into the distance, hand on belly)

NP: (cringes) “Ah yes, yes. I meant, it’s not supposed to hurt – much – but it might, you know? In fact, it will initially, but shouldn’t for much longer after that. You can use some lansinoh cream for the soreness – safe while feeding, right? Right. But if it does hurt for longer than 2 weeks, don’t keep mum and bear it, thinking it’s supposed to, coz that’s bull. Go see a lactation consultant ASAP so they can check the latch, ok? And make sure your kid’s pediatricain supports breastfeeding and doesn’t try to con you out of it – unless you want to stop, of course. Whatever works for you girl. Ah, well, I don’t know what I’m talking ab…Nibbles! Quit wiggling and drink up. What? Already? Ok, let’s try the other side; maybe there’s some milk there? Please? Pleeease?”

She: (stunned at NP’s outburst. NP, who casually shrugged off everything from morning sickness to labor pains) uh, I need to pee.

 Dammit. Way too much info. No wonder my mommy friends whispered gravely amongst themselves and never let the truth slip when I was a bubbly, wobbly pregnant dreamer, eager to soak up the joys of mommyhood. I think I’ll distract her with chocolate.

Goo

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with increasing  my milk supply, thanks to half empty pumped bottles I bring home for a starving Nibbles. Naturally preferring remedies of the edible kind, I decided to try my hand at some galactogogues. I enjoyed pigging out on fenugreek (methi) paranthas and sipped cups of yogi tea, but I must admit, my surprise favorite is Oatmeal. Yes, oatmeal, in all its soggy gooeyness, with random bites of raisins and granola and a swirl of brown sugar to punctuate the yumminess. I’ve always had a weakness for goo, and I’m so glad it has such a healthy form. Let’s hope this miracle food has some advice for the ol’ mammary glands. Can’t wait to share this with Nibbles once he gets started on solids *slurp!*

One Hand Typing

Must learn to bfeed and blog. It’s not so much the mechanics/ergonomics of it, but the need to force a mind-out-of-body experience and ignore the fact that Nibbles is on my lap. Not sure why I need to distance my blogging self from my mommyness, but I do. Of course, it doesn’t help that a curious 4 month old Nibbles is constantly distracted by the tap-tapping of keys and grabs my crawling fingers instead of sprint-nursing like a veteran.

Oh crap! Nothing like a poopy diaper to disrupt a barely steady flow of thoughts. I hear you Nibbles, multi-tasking is the cornerstone of  mommyness, and my utter inability to do so, uh, stinks.

Nibbles vs The Boob

Nibbles loves to feed – breastmilk, formula, colorful t-shirts, singing green turtles – anything that happens to venture near his eager mouth. “Bottles and pacifiers in the early weeks leads to Nipple Confusion”, cautioned the experts. They ought to have told Nibbles that as he effortlessly switched between skin, rubber and any milk-providing orifice.

So it is not without reason that I totally coredumped when he refused the breast for the first time today. I stared accusingly at the rejected boob (that just lost its right to be called a breast) – was the supply too low? flow too fast? did it smell funny? taste odd? The boob, still grappling with its recent role change from foreplay diva to milk factory, was rather offended and responded with an indignant squirt.

I did my usual 24 hour review of diet and wet+soiled diapers. I knew I shouldn’t have had that dollop of mango pickle last night. Could that nth cup of coffee be the culprit? In the meantime, Nibbles had become inconsolable and his face had turned a frightful purple. This must be the dreaded ear infection! He can’t be teething at 3 months? Maybe his stomach…gaaah!

Googling desperately after an unsuccessful attempt at reaching the pediatrician, it hit me. Nibbles has found out that I will be returning to work on friday. Deserting him. Betraying him. Failing him. And this is his not-so-silent way of protesting. I must be a heartless, selfish mother – wait – can I still call myself one when I am unable to feed my child? Defeated, I reached for the evil bottle and tried to suppress my jealousy as Nibbles sucked peacefully. 
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After six miserably long hours, Nibbles has decided to patch up with the boob. Just like that. I’ll never quite know what soured things up between them. In any case, I’ve never been happier to have only one free hand to bf and blog.