Part of me feels sad; I had grown to enjoy breastfeeding… Our 3am snuggles. The little hand that would rest itself on the top of my breast stating its claim. The satisfaction that I was the one growing him out of the womb, as I had grown him inside.
I’d be lying if I said I’d enjoyed every minute of it, but there is something so very magical about breastfeeding when you finally crack it. A bond that forms with your baby that is hard to explain.
But, that being said, in someways I am relieved it is over.
As it transpires, my milk was partly to blame for making my baby poorly; the screaming and back-arching that plagued every feed (unless he was completely exhausted) were a symptom of his allergy.
He’s a completely different child now we’ve switched to prescribed milk. He’s rapidly gaining weight. He’s always smiling and laughing. He’s unfurling in front of our eyes.
And at the end of the day, that’s far more important than reaching the six month mark, as part of me would have liked to.
Breasts, I am so thankful that we managed to work together this time round. That we battled through the bleeding, sore nipples. That we overcame the blocked ducts. That we survived the cluster feeds and nights of only two hours sleep.
I am so proud to have reached as far as we did. During times of pain and exhaustion. During the frustration. During the tears.
I wanted to give in, but we stuck it out.
Breasts, thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to experience breastfeeding; it is time with my baby that I will always cherish.
I will always be proud that we made it this far.
We did it.