Just Call Me Elsie  

As in Elsie, the cow.

Because that, my faithful readers, is what I have become over the past year. A cow. A milk cow, to be exact.

At first, nursing my daughter was just something I planned to do because it seemed the healthiest for her and for me. We all know the studies that tout "breast is best" for the first six months, a year if you can make it. G has always been a good eater. She latched on pretty easily from the get-go (well, after a few NICU obstacles almost got in our way), and has never stopped. During my maternity leave, nursing was convenient, easy, practical (with the exception of two rather nasty bouts of mastitis-- aka, every nursing mother's nightmare). Breastfeeding meant never having to buy formula, never having to clean bottles, and never having to spend time getting her food ready while G screamed impatiently. It was the best "fast food" I could provide.

I'm not sure when it happened, but over the past eight months or so, I've become maniacal when it comes to breastfeeding. Somehow, I managed to accumulate nearly 200 5-oz bags of expressed breast milk, tucked snuggly into the deep freezer chest we had to buy specifically to store it all. That's 1000 ounces of milk, people; that's more than 60 gallons. A cow, indeed.

I've pumped at work, in a small, dank, roach-infested bathroom in the bowels of the station, the only place I felt sure no one would accidentally walk in on me (although that did happen, once). I pumped in my mother-in-law's house using my sister-in-law's borrowed pump. I pumped in my mother's house. I pumped in the car. (I pumped in a bar! I pumped in my house, I pumped with a mouse!-- ok, not really). I pumped at 4am every morning for three solid months. I hoarded milk, as though someone was going to take it all away from me.

I even have a group of girlfriends I cultivated solely to talk about the virtues of breastfeeding. We went to classes together to perfect our nursing skills. I became rabid for any and all information on nursing, pumping, and the right amount of milk to feed my child.

DH is counting down the days til Georgia breaks the latch for the last time. He gets antsy, concerned, neurotic whenever I mention the idea of nursing G passed a year. Why? Because once G is weaned, my breasts become his again. Ever since I started leaking colostrum prematurely at 30 weeks pregnant, he has been barred from the breast. They've become completely utilitarian, more functional than fantasmic, at least in my mind. They cannot serve a dual purpose. Which is why he can't wait until G departs, so he can sneak back in there.

As for me? I view that day with trepidation. It's tough to break that connection, one that has bonded me to my baby girl for 11 long months. And even now, I'm not sure I want to stop nursing. I might continue nursing forever-- at least, until G won't do it anymore, Elsie runs dry, or people start giving me strange looks in public.

It's sad. This milk-cow-mom just can't seem to MOOOOOOve on.