I'm tired. No, actually, I'm exhausted. My eyes are burning with weight and no toothpick is strong enough to hold up the fort. The effort it takes to lift a limb...ugh...let me go make some tea.
...
...
English Breakfast with honey...so aromatic. I don't think it's going to help me, but at least I can enjoy the moment. Mmmm.
I'm taking inventory: tired, but not depressed. Huh....that's a new one. Can it really be that I'm moving along the highway? Have I accepted or merely tricked myself into forward motion? Did someone labotomize me in my sleep? Not possible...I don't sleep. Aha...but I do...in luxurious four hour cycles thanks to a lovely invention called Playtex drop-ins with Good Start just-add-water-powder at 7:30 PM. Finally she has lost the bottle war and I'm gaining ground in the sleep battle. I remember (in my previous life) my motto being, "I'll sleep enough when I'm dead." Those words from a former party queen are foreign now. I never would have thought that sleep deprivation could affect an insomnic so negatively. I'm used to four hours a night...after all I married a drummer...I live the rock star life...not anymore...and neither does he.
You know...we try so hard to con our children away from the bottle to the sippy cup, yet here I am praising her acceptance of said infamous beverage dispenser. It's a good thing too because my boobs are protesting their continued use as milk jugs. I'm preparing now for the end of milkmaid mom. In months past this thought brought tears to my eyes and pain in my chest. Suddenly, I'm like...they are mine kid, and it's time to give 'em back. I mean really. She's 10 and a half months old. Are you going to fault me for falling short of that 1 year mark? Have I done a dis-service to my lovely angel because I've introduced formula...gasp...for shame! She's been eating baby food since she was 4.5 months old and is now eating little girl breakfast like waffels and french toast and sometimes shares a grownup dinner - if we have couscous and peas - her favorite. Her nutritional needs are being met; she doesn't rely on my liquid gold any longer. On weekends she let's my boobs engorge and ache, pushing the time limit longer and longer. Finally they are giving up, or more accurately drying up.
I've cut my daily pumps at work back to two. It's amazing how much better my workday flows. I actually feel like I can work and accomplish my tasks with less stress. I used to watch the clock like no one's business, schedule real meetings around my appointments with the pump, would pick projects with limited time commitment, and generally believe that at the end of the day nothing really got done. I couldn't seem to multi-task at work for fear that I would lose track of time and miss my expression. I pumped like it was my job and now I realize that I was only freelancing and my contract is almost up. I don't need to keep that second job. Milkmaid to mom will do just fine please.
A small voice, who I picture looks like Whistler's mother, points her finger, "Failure! You are her mother. Your milk is her lifeline. One year is not too much to ask. You aren't trying hard enough. She deserves more. You selfish woman...". I don't listen to her anymore. Instead I listen to a gentle birdsong like coming spring. I picture dresses and tops without a V-neck, new push-up bras, having beer and wine with friends - oooo and my precious martinis of yum. I envision dinners out with my husband, maybe even some dancing and seeing friends play at the local pub while Anya sucks away on a beverage of vitablock nutrients in the arms of her aunts or good friends for the evening.
Every morning I wake up and wonder, "Is this the day?" Usually the ferocious slap, pinching and clawing at my face and neck after realizing there wasn't enough milk for her to fall back asleep is enough to tell me "no." I have to convince myself that she will adjust. I run downstairs to fix her a few ounces of formula. She pushes the bottle away and twists her face into my chest. After several tries she aborts and surrenders to the bottle and I rock her back to sleep before I jump in the shower...late again. I feel success, then sadness. I know she is hurt and confused. I don't want to be the cause of that suffering. Her whimpers as she falls off to slumber make my stomach twist. But I know...I know.
I'm ready. I hear the clock ticking. I taste a hint freedom (in the guise of future vodka). I feel the breeze and it tells me it's coming. The weening process is as much of a milestone for me as it is for her. We both hurt and don't want to let go. I need to let go for her sake. The frustration she feels from an empty source will hurt her more than a nourishing bottle. I need to let go for my sake. The frustration I feel from lack of sleep and a body not my own aches more than allowing her to grow into the strong woman I know she'll be. Not too much longer...
...maybe this is the first real step out of my fog.
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