So, I've been convinced Dude was going to be weaned at least four times. Once when he bit me so hard I looked down expecting to see a piece of my nipple missing. Once when I went to Amsterdam for three days. Once when he turned two. Once when I went to Texas for five days.
Obviously, none of those times was "the time Dude was weaned". The boy is, and always has been, a boob jockey. You should see how happy his little face is when I get out of the shower. He has been known to climb into my lap on the sofa, assume the position, tug at the neck of my shirt and demand "bees". (Insert obligatory "bitty" joke here.)
Let me set the scene for the last couple of weeks in our house. There has been the usual amount of coughing and spluttering, and just for fun we added in the obligatory flu immunisation. This saw both kids spiking a fever on and off for a couple of days. At one point, Dude walked past my lovely clean bra drying on the door handle into the kitchen, said "nose", and wiped a chunky green stripe onto the left cup. Despite our offerings* to Atishoo, the god of colds and flus, the coughing and spluttering has only increased. Madam spiked yet another fever last night, complaining of ear and neck pain, which of course saw us at the GP today. And of course, they both have chest infections.
I haven't slept in... well, probably since Texas. And due to various reasons (jet lag, tattoos, the usual...) that was the same amount of sleep, just in a different bed. So despite my smug Thrive-popping assurances that I WILL NEVER GET SICK AGAIN... I got sick again. Despite the fact that we are all sick, the fridge genie didn't get the memo that we were out of food, so we trundled along to Tesco. We made it through fresh fruit and veg, got Himself's cream crackers and milk, and in my sneezing, sniffling, coughing stupor I found myself staring blankly at the wall of cold and flu meds.
I haven't spent any real time in this aisle in four years. I've been either pregnant or breastfeeding since January of 2011, and unable to medicate myself with anything stronger than the occasional paracetamol. That's when it hit me. I don't think I've fed Dude this month. This could be, this could finally be, "the time Dude was weaned".
So yes, I bought a packet of Beechams. Yes, I swallowed one when we got home. My nose has already stopped attempting to drown me. I have a weird guilty feeling hovering somewhere above my head, though. I've basically spent the last four years trying to do what was best for the bratlets, which usually meant ignoring what I needed, and this feels... selfish. I know. Believe me, I know. He's over two, we've been really lucky that breastfeeding was so easy for me, and he got what he needed from me when he most needed it. He's proven that when he's tired he will just lay down and go to sleep, no boobs required.
Guess it's just the end of an era. Bring on the pharmaceuticals.
*Used kleenex, the moans and groans of the truly devout, and endless cups of tea.
Obviously, none of those times was "the time Dude was weaned". The boy is, and always has been, a boob jockey. You should see how happy his little face is when I get out of the shower. He has been known to climb into my lap on the sofa, assume the position, tug at the neck of my shirt and demand "bees". (Insert obligatory "bitty" joke here.)
Let me set the scene for the last couple of weeks in our house. There has been the usual amount of coughing and spluttering, and just for fun we added in the obligatory flu immunisation. This saw both kids spiking a fever on and off for a couple of days. At one point, Dude walked past my lovely clean bra drying on the door handle into the kitchen, said "nose", and wiped a chunky green stripe onto the left cup. Despite our offerings* to Atishoo, the god of colds and flus, the coughing and spluttering has only increased. Madam spiked yet another fever last night, complaining of ear and neck pain, which of course saw us at the GP today. And of course, they both have chest infections.
I haven't slept in... well, probably since Texas. And due to various reasons (jet lag, tattoos, the usual...) that was the same amount of sleep, just in a different bed. So despite my smug Thrive-popping assurances that I WILL NEVER GET SICK AGAIN... I got sick again. Despite the fact that we are all sick, the fridge genie didn't get the memo that we were out of food, so we trundled along to Tesco. We made it through fresh fruit and veg, got Himself's cream crackers and milk, and in my sneezing, sniffling, coughing stupor I found myself staring blankly at the wall of cold and flu meds.
I haven't spent any real time in this aisle in four years. I've been either pregnant or breastfeeding since January of 2011, and unable to medicate myself with anything stronger than the occasional paracetamol. That's when it hit me. I don't think I've fed Dude this month. This could be, this could finally be, "the time Dude was weaned".
So yes, I bought a packet of Beechams. Yes, I swallowed one when we got home. My nose has already stopped attempting to drown me. I have a weird guilty feeling hovering somewhere above my head, though. I've basically spent the last four years trying to do what was best for the bratlets, which usually meant ignoring what I needed, and this feels... selfish. I know. Believe me, I know. He's over two, we've been really lucky that breastfeeding was so easy for me, and he got what he needed from me when he most needed it. He's proven that when he's tired he will just lay down and go to sleep, no boobs required.
Guess it's just the end of an era. Bring on the pharmaceuticals.
*Used kleenex, the moans and groans of the truly devout, and endless cups of tea.
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