I remember that first plus sign I saw on a pregnancy test. My heart was pounding in utter disbelief.
“No freaking way,” I thought – or you can probably insert a multitude of four-letter words instead. I was shocked, excited, no, elated was the feeling. Is there any better high in life? That was 9 years ago, almost to the day.
I had my first child in February 2004. I was like any first-time mom; clueless about what to really expect. So what if I read a few books prior to her birth. The real life experiences can only come from just that – real life experiences. To say that the first few months were hard is an understatement, but I loved every minute of it. Yes, even the 3:01 a.m. minutes. My little girl was the love of my life.
I nursed her until she was 15 months old. I didn’t have a choice initially; you see, she refused a bottle. Absolutely no way, no how would she take a bottle. So it was me and just me. When we got to the 12 month mark, I slowly started weaning – but it lasted until 15 months, something I would have never planned. Don’t judge.
Right around that time we (ok, I more or less – my husband was convinced) got an itch for another baby. I really, really wanted another. And as luck would have it, when my first daughter was 18 months, we got pregnant again.
My second daughter was born in May 2006. Wow was she different. This experienced mom thought she had it all down pat, thought she knew how to make baby happy. Boy was she in for a surprise. Acid reflux, a different personality and the sheer fact that they were 2 vs 1 (my husband worked late and long hours) was enough to rock my world – again. But soon enough, I was into my groove and managing with two.
I nursed (again) until 14 months. By now, it was easier and what I knew. I never used a bottle for my second as I wasn’t used to them. It worked, so we did it. And, as history often repeats itself, I began to get that itch again. My husband and I had aimed for 3 total kids so why not do it again? Well it happened sooner than we planned, and once again I was pregnant, due in August of 2008. My expectations were low – I sucked going from 1 to 2, so I was going to suck more going from 2 to 3. Maybe it was my attitude or maybe it was the fact that she’s got a great demeanor. Whatever it was, going from 2 to 3 was a BREEZE. She ate, slept and pooped, just like a baby’s supposed to, right? I was happy; but I never felt “done”. Sure, I tried to think of everything as my “last”; the “last time I’d head to the hospital to give birth,” the “last time I’d bring a brand new baby home,” you know how it goes. But I always felt like something was missing.
I nursed her until she was 15 months old and it was time to be done. I knew that’d be the last bonding moments with a baby for me. I was done having children, it was time to move on. And then (you knew this was coming) there was that life-changing day for me in July of 2010. I had done two sprint triathlons in two weeks – my first ever, mind you. I was exhausted … but something else was up. A friend of mine had suggested months ago that if we didn’t want any more kids, we should do something about it. Elementary advice, but advice we ignored nonetheless. Yes, as luck would have it (again), I was pregnant. Again. I was elated; my husband – not so much. But with time, the idea grew on him. We had three girls and opted again to not find out the sex. At this point, it wouldn’t matter. We’d have one of the same or someone totally different.
On March 16, 2011, our little boy was born. Dang, you moms weren’t kidding when you told me that the love you feel for a boy is different than a girl. I was in love.
Unfortunately for me, the nursing did not go well. Bleeding nipples, not enough milk supply, renaud’s disease and numerous trips to the dreaded lactation consultant were making me nutty. But how could I not do for him what I did for my others? I had to. And so, I formed a relationship with my pump, my new best friend for the upcoming year. Holy %@^^, I pumped and pumped and pumped. For the first 4 months of his life I woke up at 2 a.m. every morning to pump. Then I’d pump 8 times a day. I pumped while driving, I pumped while working. And soon it was just normal for us. My girls knew how to turn the pump on and off; they’d sit with me while I did it.
When his first birthday rolled around, I was ready to stop; but I didn’t. I held on to a few pumping sessions a day. Because to stop for me meant that I was done. Sure, it wasn’t “nursing” – but I would be done having babies, I’d be done providing for them. This time we took my friend’s advice and “did something” about it, so there are no more babies in my future unless we are to adopt.
About 2 weeks ago my 8-year-old asked me when I was going to be done pumping; I knew it was time. And so, I figured there’d be no day more appropriate than Mother’s Day. So on Sunday I had my last session with my bff (aka my pump).
I’m sure this will come across as kooky to some, but for me, it’s the end of an era. It’s the end of being pregnant, of feeling baby movements in my belly. It’s the end of let downs, of leakage and of nursing bras. No more maternity clothes and no more infant carriers. After 9 years, I’m done. It’s time to move on to new things. It’s time to enjoy these babies who are growing up faster than I can blink. And while I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sad, I need to focus on things up-and-coming.
Thank you for letting me share such a meaningful story with you.
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