I have a confession to make: I really don’t particularly love nursing Rowan. I love the idea of it, but in reality he is at a stage that is something akin to trying to nurse a manic octopus. He claws at my arms, breasts, and face. His newfound locomotion has him trying to crawl while he nurses, gymnastic feats of sticking his butt in the air and doing the nursing equivalent of the dizzy bat game. He can’t seem to keep his top teeth off of me, and occasionally bites down — apparently just for the fun of it. He’s distractible, and he pops on and off repeatedly.
Let’s get the obligatory disclaimers out of the way: I fully support a family’s right to feed their baby in whatever way works best for them. Formula is not an enemy. And for women who desire to breastfeed we need to do everything in our power to help them succeed. We should be bulldozing the hurdles and sewing up the loopholes.
7:30pm – Put Rowan in the swing. Turn it to level three, turn on the music, turn on the lights and mobile, stand on one leg, wish on a star, and sell my soul in hopes he will actually fall asleep.