I took the above photo to document your absolute love for the pillow pictured. It is an insane love affair, you and the handwritten pillowcase. Since day one, we’ve always nursed on the couch in our living room so I can watch TV while you eat. Because nursing you takes forever because you like to take a lot of breaks to burp/throw up on your mother/chit-chat/stare at the aforementioned pillow. And I’m realizing a bit late that our living room is heaven on earth to you. A heaven that doesn’t involve nursing; it only involves monochromatic artwork and patterned pillows and leather buttons on the couch. And I’ve tried to nurse you elsewhere to take away the distractions, but my gosh you do not like this at all. Not one bit. To you, dinner must come with a side of chevron. So for now, we nurse on The Couch of Distraction. And it takes you all. day. long.
I’m shooting myself in the foot, I realize. You’ll get used to snacking, then playing, then snacking some more, and eventually your father and I will get a phone call from your 2nd grade teacher asking why you’ve requested that the cafeteria trays be replaced with high contrast throw pillows. Just kidding. (I hope.)
I also just realized that I talk to you about nursing in every one of these letters. That’s probably because nursing you, Bee, is the hardest part of this whole mom thing. I want to tell you this because someday you might have your own kid, and you might decide to breastfeed your kid. And I want to tell you that nursing that kid is not like what it looks like in the movies, Bee. It’s like this: You’re drinking from a water fountain of awesome and everything is great. Awesome tastes good, and you’re super pleased with awesome. But sometimes, all of the sudden, the slow trickle of the awesome becomes a garden hose of not-so-awesome. And then you choke. And scream. And yell at me and my awesome. And refuse awesome for 15 minutes until you decide that garden hose awesome is better than no awesome at all.
And there are lots of remedies to try and advice given, but at the end of the day, you’re still stuck with me and my garden hose of awesome. (Sorry, Bee.) But it’s ok, because it’s only temporary. It all is, dear. Because these moments, no matter how sweet or difficult, pass quickly. You’re over 11 weeks now, which in newborn years, is basically old enough to smoke. (Don’t do it, Bee!) Yes, you’re all grown up, choosing fun over food, just like your average 16-year-old.
And sometimes life will give you garden hoses. And when that happens, don’t scream at your mother. Just throw on your bathing suit and play for a bit.
I’ll be right over, pillows in hand.