A mother is someone who becomes totally oblivious to the unpleasantness of many bodily functions, and so as mistress of poo, puke and piss you feel quite comfortable in inflicting the Internet with the information that last week you got your period again after an unbroken run of 20 months free of sluggish crampy bleeding.
The interesting thing about this (to you) is that it occurred two weeks practically to the day after the Comet upped and decided to give up breastfeeding. Which came first you would like to know. Was it the sudden shock to the system which restarted your reproductive cycle or was it the the egg which soured your milk?
However your interest is definitely taking a backseat to your upset. You were not ready to stop breastfeeding. You have always taken the view that since you were unable to manage exclusive feeding, that the least you could do is keep the milkbar open for a decent length of time. Plus, there’s something very soothing about settling down with your baby at the end of the day for a bit of a snuggle and a snack. You fed the Star well into his second year, just the once, at bed time, and you were looking forward to doing that with the Comet too.
But mostly, having her scream and arch her back as you brought her to the breast was hurtful. You felt rejected. Bereft. Empty armed. You feel rejected. Bereft. Empty armed.
And you felt pain. Thanks to the fact that the Comet was feeding quite often at night as well as in the evening, stopping cold like that meant that you got quite engorged. Owowowowow. OW! OW! OW! This went on for a good three weeks. OWOWOWOWOW! OW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Of course, you had sold the breastpump about two weeks before. So no relief there, or the possibility of carrying the milk production on in the hope that she would reattach, or even so that you could feed her real milk in a bottle. Not that you ever managed to get a breastpump to work for you anyway. No, hand expressing didn’t do much either.
However, life goes on and presumably she knew what she was doing. She’s 11 months now (good grief) so she can certainly survive without your milk. She’s also sleeping better at night, clearly deciding that being walked up and down, up and down, up and down and up and down instead of suckled back to sleep was unsatisfactory, and sleep is, after all, also important. And this means that you are now able to sleep more too.
Or you would be able to had you not bruised (or possibly cracked) your ribs in a bathroom accident while washing the Star’s hair. He objected, you moved sharply to protect your still extremely tender tits, skidded on the by then very wet floor and crashed, ribcage first, onto the side of the bath.
It’s a good thing you were also winded or both your children’s vocabulary would have been considerably enriched.
On the upside, since you are no longer breastfeeding you feel quite comfortable numbing the cracked (or possibly bruised) ribs into submission with back to back maximum strength ibuprofen, many paracetamol and very strong coffee. This has been working quite well as long as you don’t lie flat or bend, lift anything or laugh. It is unfortunate that bending, lifting stuff and laughing describes parenting in a nutshell, of course, but there you are.
Plus, you wish your husband would stop doing his impression of the Comet doing her impression of the Men in Black’s bug-in-an-Edgar-suit now that she is walking. It’s uncanny and very very funny.
Hahahahahaha! OW! Don’t make me laugh. Hahahahahahahahaha! OWOWOW! No really stop it, it hurts! Hahahahahahahahahahahhahahhahaha! OW! OW! OW! Oh god, no, don’t. Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! OW!