The Weaning, or Coming Down Off the Baby High

Oh my god, what is this tightening in my chest? Is it anxiety? Do I have lung cancer? What happened to my stomach?! That’s not a navel. What the hell IS that? Am I The Only One Who Cleans Up Around Here? HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO ASK YOU TO SNAKE THE DAMN DRAIN IN THE BATHTUB?!!

This isn’t PMS, this is weaning. It’s closer to quitting smoking, except there’s no patch for this. 

For the past year, everything’s been fine. Fine fine fine. Eh, I’m a little overweight and underemployed. The two-year-old is a bit obstreperous sometimes. The house is not exactly organized, but hey, we have kids, and oh look! Facebook! 

But now, my darling sweet baby boy, my last baby, is weaning. He’s been kind of disinterested in it and easily distracted for a while now, but we’ve kept going with morning and evening sessions. The evening as a sweet part of the going-to-bed routine, in the morning because it lets me doze just a little bit linger. 

She is so stoned.

She is so stoned.

But really, the reason we’re still going is that I’m a breastfeeding junkie. Oxytocin is my drug, and the baby is my dealer. Oxytocin is the love drug, the one you get from cuddling, and it’s a big part of the breastfeeding mechanism. It makes life sweeter and gentler, and I just don’t mind my life as much. Even when things get rough, it’s fine, really, when you’re toking twice a day.

But it’s time, and from past experience, it’ll be a rough week of oxytocin withdrawal. Also from past experience, I might actually get something done around here. Because oh my god, who lives like this?!