By Heather O.
Yessirree, I have done it. I’m ready for that new medication that is supposed to work miracles with my blood pressure. She’s all set.
What am I doing? Oh, this? This isn’t nursing, this is just some comfort sucking. She’s totally weaned. Seriously. Oh, this nursing bra I’m wearing? I mean, it’s not really a nursing bra–it just supports me really well, and is sort of convenient if,you know, just in case she needs something, like if she’s really distraught, or if she’s really out of control, or if I’m lying on the couch reading my book and she comes wandering up and pulls at my shirt wanting to nurse. You know, emergencies.
But really, other than a little swig in the morning after she gets out of her crib, maybe some alone time with her in the afternoon before she goes down for a nap, and some nursing in the middle of the night when she wakes up and won’t go back to sleep, she is totally done.
Totally. Absolutely. 100% weaned. You betcha.
Excuse me, I must go. My milk is coming in.
Not that my daughter drinks any breast milk anymore. The milk–it’s just for show.
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