I have thrown in the towel...erm, pump.
Owen doesn't want my nipples, he wants the silicone ones (that's what I get for having a baby in South County), and nothing I do is going to change that.
Pumping is a done deal as well. He's 3 weeks old today, and the lactation lagoon has dried up.
And nothing makes you feel more womanly than realizing your chest has turned into the Dust Bowl (how will I ever save a starving stranger now?)...
I have to keep reminding myself though, that this isn't about me. It's about the baby; he is perfectly healthy and content with his bottle of formula, and I am not an asshole or unfit mother because I couldn't breastfeed.
I'm working really hard to believe that, and not be negative about it.
(Sometimes however, I do find myself giving the formula can dirty looks...USURPER!)
As much as I hate to admit it, waving the white flag on this whole feeding fiasco has made things a lot easier.
I am less frustrated, the sobbing has all but quit (pregnancy hormones ain't got NOTHING on postpartum ones), and I get to spend more time cuddling Owen.
He's so good. He's waking up about every 2-2.5 hrs at night, but will usually go right back to sleep after a bottle and a dry diaper.
The pediatrician says he looks great, and I swear, he gets bigger each day!
I don't want him to grow up!
And yes, believe it or not, I get super-bummed sometimes that he's no longer in my belly....
But then I remember the constant pain, and I snap out of it pretty quickly.
Oh! Oh! Oh!
I am sleeping in my own bed again!
I'm thinking of burning the Poang chair in effigy.