I’ll come right out and say it: Our breastfeeding journey came to an abrupt end at six weeks. Looking back, the beginning of the end was probably day two in the hospital when Michael was just about 36 hours old. Of course, I didn’t give up. Maybe I should have.
Side note: I know there’s a crunchy mom out there waiting to judge me. Go for it. While your hair air dries and you put on organic, over-priced lip gloss from a health food store and nurse your seven year old while you eat granola that’s free of the top eight allergens, judge me.
But first, read this.
Maybe your newborn sleeps. Maybe your newborn doesn’t sleep. Maybe you’re struggling playing the formula game and trying to find one that your little one’s tummy can handle. Maybe you feel as though you have become a dairy cow and your baby is nursing constantly.
Perhaps you’re currently running on three hours of sleep. You might be the woman standing in front of the mirror, holding back tears, wondering if you’ll ever get back into shape (even though you know deep down inside it’s only been about two weeks since you housed a human).
Regardless of where you’re at, know this: It’s just an uphill stretch.
Recently, someone made the comment that I have it all “put together so well.” Someone else asked me, “is there anything you don’t do?!” in a way that implied that I am supermom/superwife/supergirl.
Let me stop you right there: While these comments are flattering and I take them as compliments, I am actually a hot freaking mess. I choose what I want to rank as “most important” on my list and then I do those things. I do not, in anyway, have jackshit together. Trust me.
Today, let’s take a little tour of my postpartum house and the view I had when I walked a mile on my treadmill last night.