He pulls himself up to standing, now. He does it whenever he wants. He doesn’t crawl, he doesn’t sit, and he doesn’t pull himself up to walk. He’s gone from the army-crawl (dragging his belly with the palms of his hands) to pulling himself up to stand and then trying to CLIMB up my leg.

My little Monkey tries to climb up my leg, and he’s learned that I’ll pick him up when he does it. But he doesn’t stay in my lap or hug me, not this kid. As soon as I pick him up, he dives across my arms and goes for my water cup. He’s watched me drink a few times, and has decided that *this* is what he wants to mimic. He’s pretty good at getting several sips of water out of a 24 ounce glass.

I had filled the prescription the night before. I put it on the counter next to my glasses. I woke up early, and listened to the birds, waiting for him to wake up. This was it. One last time.

I jumped up when I heard him stir, and went to make a warm bottle. I was extra careful that the bottle was warm. He deserved that today.

I scooped him up while he was still sleepy and settled into the glider. I rocked and hugged him.

Ducky, Mama loves you very much.
I love you when you get a smart mouth.
I love you when you bring home a boyfriend.
I love you when you get a bad report card or call me from jail.
I love you because you will always be my little Squirmy Worm.
I love you when you’re too wrapped up to call me on Mother’s day.
I love you, so I’m going to have to take care of myself so that I can chase after you. You’re probably not even going to notice, but this is the last time we’re going to nurse. Okay? We’re still gonna snuggle, we’re still gonna bounce, I’m still going to come running when you need me.

You still get to be a baby, and you still get to have me take care of you, even if I have to ask you grow up a little today.

I opened up my shirt and he looked at my nipple. He reached for it, and grabbed it with his hand before looking at me and then nursing. I didn’t have much milk left, so he bit me and slobbered on me before unlatching and looking up at me.

We switched sides, I hugged him close. He latched for a few seconds.

And then he farted.

And then he was done.

The first four weeks of breastfeeding were miserable. Shallow latch, flat, bruised nipples. That Guy I Married had to hold the baby up to my breast so that I wouldn’t crush his scull when he latched incorrectly.

All of the Experts were there to shove Breast is Best down my throat. All of the Experts did not have the time of day to teach me how to nurse. Insurance doesn’t cover it. The pediatrician and everyone else dismissed me and told me to go to The Pumpstation. The Pumpstation wouldn’t give me the time of day until I paid $130. Upfront. Cash or credit is fine!

$130 is a lot of money to an unemployed new mother. Especially to just be told to swaddle him and push his head back and forth with my palm.

When I cried out for help with nursing I got visitors and bright paper bags full of Onesies.

The next six weeks were not so bad. Ducky had learned to latch on his own, eventually. He cried, I attached him to my breast, he nursed, he relaxed, and closed his eyes. And then I ceased to exist until the next time he wanted to nurse. He retreated into the world of the sleeping newborn. At least nursing was no longer painful. I thought I had bonded with him, I had accepted that I was responsible for the needs of this little squawking duck.

Around ten weeks old, he woke up before dawn and called out with the morning birds. He cried, I attached him to my breast, he nursed, he relaxed, and closed his eyes. And then.

And then: the good part. And then: the reason why. And then he nursed, he relaxed, and softly placed his tiny hand on my ribcage. He leaned his warm head into my chest and nuzzled. As if I mattered. As if I was the one he needed. In that moment we were meant to nuzzle just like that.

And then we were a pair. Every morning, I would wisk him out of the crib before he woke his dad. We would sit, and wordlessly start our day together. He had outgrown the bird-like, boney arms, and shrill newborn noises. Suddenly, he was a baby. The baby I had waited for my whole life.

I had become so trained to respond to the newborn alarm, that I had forgotten about the good part. The baby. Chubby, soft, sweet-smelling, snuggly baby.

He’s not the cuddliest little guy. Up, moving, active, nosey, busy, social, strong, but not cuddly. That was hard for me to accept. He’s healthy as a horse, but usually I’m just a safe lap to stand on, or a place to stop for a quick snack. I need to hug him more than he needs to be hugged.

Except in the morning, when the birds were singing, and the sun wasn’t up yet. He nursed and cuddled. Just for a few minutes every morning, I was the best thing in the world.

That Guy I Married would ask the baby every evening “wanna go see Mama?” after about four months old, Ducky would dive into the crook of my arm.

Eventually Ducky got to busy and didn’t nurse much throughout the day. I was ready to nurse him for a year. At six months, he went on a nursing strike for two weeks. I thought we were done, until he grabbed my shirt and started digging for my breast in the middle of the afternoon. He was not done. He told me what he needed, and he got it.

I can Do that part of parenting. Meet a need when I know what it is. Even if he just needed to nurse long enough to help himself pass gas. It got to where I had stopped offering to nurse, he would tell me when he needed to. Usually just once a day.

And that was okay. That was all he needed. He would be done soon.

But not soon enough. I was being warned. I was being instructed to stop nursing. I avoided the first couple of meltdowns by having a bottle ready, or by plopping him into the high-chair first thing in the morning. The next couple were harder to avoid. I couldn’t put down my crying baby to go and put that powdered crap into a bottle. I couldn’t walk away from him. I wanted to hold him close and let him nuzzle. It was so miserable, I don’t want to write anything else down.

I just want to hold on to the rest of the story.

And then he farted.

That’s the unromantic end of this story. The story that will be told in the past tense. I’m writing this down for myself, so that I don’t forget. Because part of the story is sweet, even if it’s tangled with the part that is unbearable.
—

Once a day, he made it clear that he still needed to nurse. But my mood had not been improving. Anxiety came and went like the sun. I was fine, until someone asked me how I was doing. Not fine. I needed help. Help to learn how to nurse, how to put him down for a nap. I needed help to hold him up when my arms were tired. I needed help learning what his cries meant. I needed help to figure out how much to feed him. I needed help to accept the fact that all those things came more naturally to my husband than to me.

I needed help sleeping. I needed help organizing my day. I needed help staving off the monotony of washing bottles and taking diapers out to the trash. The most basic things, like making phone calls, and walking into the post office became the hardest thing in the world. How could I take care of a baby if I couldn’t take care of myself?

That’s not completely true. I can take care of a baby. I am capable, he is cared for. The inside of his ears are dirty, but he has been better than fine. I have not been.

I’ve seen a psychiatrist and a social worker a couple times a week for the last year. Dutifully keeping my appointments. Being honest. Being preemptive. Reciting my medical history and asking for help while I was still able, before Ducky was even born. Calling for help when I needed to. I’ve tried everything. Daily exercise, Omega 3’s, weekly monitoring, group therapy and individual therapy. I’ve been coached for how to break ties with people who I can no longer take care of, because I need all the strength I have to take care of my child and myself.

I’ve been working my tail off all year, trying to stay fine. I know exactly what happens to a family when Mommy is Not Fine. I have got to break the cycle. Ducky deserves a mother who can, and will, take care of herself.

But I need help. The bills for therapy are piling up. Family members are taking care of Ducky as best as they are able to. We’re paying for a wonderful babysitter. That Guy I Married is moving mountains to take care of both of us, and himself. I’ve tried every drug that is safe for nursing a baby.

It’s not enough.

I didn’t want to hear it, but it has come time to try the drugs that are Not Safe For Nursing. I’m angry. The last five drugs didn’t work, why stop nursing if the next five drugs probably won’t work either. I’m going to take an essential comfort away from my baby, for what, so that I *might* start to feel better? I’m resistant.

It’s not his fault that I am teary, wistful, and sad. It’s not his fault that I’m ninety minutes from people who would help me if it was convenient. Why do I have to take the breast away from him? He didn’t do anything wrong. He doesn’t deserve to be told that he can’t nurse. He doesn’t understand. He’s almost done nursing, but he’s not done yet.

I was asked to grow up and take care of my own needs too young, I can’t do that to him.

But I can’t take care of him if I can’t take care of myself. I’ve been told to invest in myself a little bit, or risk hospitalization. There, I said it: The Worst Thing That Could Happen is now a possibility.

There is Something Worse than listening to him cry because he can’t nurse. I have to face that.

We’re done nursing. I’ve started the new pills. I don’t want to forget that part of my baby. I’m going to write it down, file it away, so that I can let go of this, and still keep it.

Yesterday before That Guy came home, Ducky woke up from his nap. I found him on his knees, holding the crib railing and sucking on the rail. Time to move the crib down to the lowest setting.

I made sure to get a picture and a video, but we haven’t managed to get the crib lowered yet.

Today, when I came home from work, That Guy and I were sitting in front of the computer with Ducky on the floor. He crawled over, grabed one of each of our legs, and pulled himself up on his knees. I watched in horror as he pulled his right knee out from under him and slowly placed his right foot on the floor. He stood up on both feet, on the first try.

On my way into town, I called the grandparents, and sent text messages to the god parents. I got into town, parked and pushed the stroller into an elevator. A woman comes up behind me and starts waving “Hi Baby! Hi Baby!”

He waved back. Arm out, closing his fingers to his thumb several times.

He waved back! THREE milestones in twenty four hours.

::wail:: My baaaaaaay-by!

If there ever was a day that I wish I blogged more often, and was a little more tied in to the blogosphere, this is it.

My doctors have been pushing me to stop nursing for a couple of months now. Supposedly, there are meds that would help me more, but there’s no data on how they’d effect a nursing child.

I had been down to nursing once a day for most of the last month. Yesterday, Ducky never asked to nurse, so we were okay.

But tonight, right now. Not so fine. He wants to nurse, and I want to let him. “They say” I need to wean, and that I will be better off. They don’t have any proof that I’ll be better off. And, They are not listening to him crying. He’s looking at me, and grabbing my shirt, not Theirs.

He’s still so small.

I can’t even call anyone for advice. I already know what all of the other mom-friends think about the bottle/boob decision. They’ve all made their choices.

I wanted to nurse for a year. Or less, if Ducky lost interest in his own time.

I’d jump ship and invest in the formula if I KNEW that new meds would help me. But, they’ve never helped before, who’s to say they’ll help now.

Tonight, at least, I’m worse off for the upset of not nursing.

And we’re both still crying.

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