The one thing I (well, my body) was so good at was producing milk. I was a breast pumping rockstar. Here, I followed all the rules, and in this case, it worked. The nurses couldn’t believe how much I was pumping. So weaning is bittersweet. On one hand, pumping makes me sad. It’s not for Ander anymore. I would like to sleep through the night, and be able to go to a movie without wondering how long it is, in case I have to pump. But I’m reluctant to give up this last vestige of a “normal” pregnancy, this one thing I was so successful at within this mess. Plus, breasts are fascinating. I feel oddly guilty cutting them off mid-pump so that my brain gets the signal to stop producing as much milk. “I’m sorry, boobs,” I tell them. I can’t help but feel they will be vengeful the next time around, will shut down thinking that I didn’t appreciate or need them as much. They’re not even at their peak and I’m cutting them off. I’m so disappointed that I won’t get to see their full potential, and I worry that I might never. Of course, the lactation consultants and my Mom tell me no, that they’ll do just as well, even better, the next time around. But since so much hasn’t gone as planned, this too is hard to believe. I can’t help but feel that I’ll get the rest of the perfect pregnancy the next time around, but this one part won’t work. It’s some “you can’t have it all” nightmare that is totally irrational. But aren’t parts of grief irrational?
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