I’m tired of breastfeeding, but Nathan is not tired of being breastfed. I sent him a memo with “I WANT MY BODY BACK” as the subject, but it’s useless because he can’t read. And he doesn’t get it that when my back is turned, I’m trying to go to sleep and yet, he still tries to mouth my back. Dude, you’re better off milking a turnip.
And is it selfish that I really want to stop breastfeeding because I want to loose weight like a normal human being? I tell myself that it’s the breastfeeding not the ice cream that has kept those five extra pounds, okay ten pounds, GEEZ! ENOUGH! 20 POUNDS! THERE! HAPPY NOW? Do you want my immortal soul, too!?! That’s about six pounds right there.
But more than my fear that I’ll never shake what my mama gave me is the nagging question, what if Nathan never stops breastfeeding like that Chinese kid in The Last Emperor? I still shudder at that scene with a 10-year-old and all his teeth, working those double whammies and now when I look at my son I wonder if I could fight off Communism just armed with Cheerios.