taking back the tatas

Who wants to read about my boobs again?


To those of you who read my blog but do not give a flying frig about parenting and babies–I am truly sorry for this post. I hope you’re going to read it anyway, because let’s be honest–what else are you going to do on a frigid Thursday night in January besides eat leftover Christmas candy and watch reruns of The Big Bang Theory? Have some self respect.

As all three of my followers  you probably already know, nursing my now 14-month old nipple ninja hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park. From the early, panic-ridden days of simply learning how to latch, to a 22-day hospital moratorium on breast milk, to recurring bouts of thrush–it’s been at times, a legitimate waking nightmare.

But you know what? I’m proud as hell of those scars.

We did good, kid.


Oh this?  This is just us proving them wrong when they said we’d never nurse again.

Tonight I will breastfeed my son for the last time.

Truthfully, I’ve been nursing longer than he’s both wanted and needed to. And before the breastfeeding bandits start clicking their tongues and wagging their fingers, please note that I am in fact aware that nursing beyond one year of age is a valuable source of nutrition and disease protection.

But he’s throwing on the floor eating a regular, well-balanced diet now in addition to nursing both morning and night. He wants food more, and breast milk less. Besides, the convenience factor just isn’t there anymore. Not a day goes by where he doesn’t yell at my chest in frustration (probably because it’s pretty much tapped out) or give me a purple nurple or smack in the face. It’s time to face the facts: my baby doesn’t need my milk anymore.

He’s ready to wean.

All the big boy food.

Gimme dat big boy food, ma.

And so am I.

So this morning, I left my 11th consecutive refill of Domperidone on my nightstand and went to work. Tonight, after dinner, I’ll wash crusty food out of his hair, read him a bedtime story, and we’ll nurse one final time.

He’ll probably twist my nipple until I say “OW”, then laugh like a miniature psychopath.

And I’ll cry–mostly for my nipple, but maybe a little for me, too.