Does this make me a weaner?

Be forewarned, dear reader….this is about to get ugly.

You may recall that some months ago…14.5 to be exact, I hatched a delightful little male offspring, my beloved Peanut. I decided upon his arrival that I would nurse him from birth to age one, thus giving him the best possible start in life by expanding his cerebral cortex, enhancing his IQ and supersizing his serving of the good stuff you find in minute quantities in your morning Wheaties.

Lets fast forward. The big “ONE” comes and goes. Somehow I am still booby hostage.

Now that in itself is not necessarily the worst possible thing that could ever happen to a soul. But here comes the unpleasant feature. I’ve had mastitis 6 times in 7 months. That is some kind of new record. Akin to having the largest feet, or fitting the most perogies in one’s mouth. Yes, I am a hero. A beaten, battered booby hero.

Upon Mastitis #6, we’ll call it MACH6 for effect, I lamented my case to a new Dr. He (YES! That is correct, HE!) shook his head in disbelief. Boobs just shouldn’t go through that! MACH6 was not welcome, we’d see to that. So he prescribed a whole vat of super strength super hero antibiotics. They will knock MACH6 into the next century. I was relieved to hear this bit of good news, but it is not alllll good. You see, these magical little MACH6 fighting pills are laced with some kind of pungent-burnt-garlic-sumo-wrestler-B.O.-on-a-tire-on-a-hot-day aftertaste. No wonder MACH6 will bugger off. If I wasn’t stuck in my own body I wouldn’t want to be here either! Yucko. No amount of brushing, rinsing or ingesting various yummy substances will make the putrid death rot flavour go away.

But that is not all! Helpful Man Dr also wants me to get this MACH6 cured once and for all. I am not sure why he was so adamant that there would not be a MACH7. Perhaps he was hoping that honour would be bestowed upon one of his good buddies and his helpfulness was really a sneaky way of stealing my thunder and denying me fame and fortune. Whatever his motivation, the Helpful Man Dr sent a referral to a “specialist” (such a vague and ominous word) to help me with my problem, whatever that may be.

A few days pass and I receive a call from the “specialist” clinic. Wouldn’t I please come at this time that is convenient for them and no, they don’t have anything else. Quit asking and just be thankful and grateful and joyful that you even got in. I nodded in agreement (although I was on the phone at the time so I am not sure it did a whole heap of good). I’ll be there. I carefully scratch the directions on a notepad and hang up, thankful, grateful and joyful feelings welling up in my heart. Oh, crap! I forgot to find out what kind of “specialist” this may be. All I know is that it is at the “Women’s Clinic”, which is even more vague and ominous.

The day arrives and we pawn lil Peanut off on his doting grandparents. No sense dragging the poor kid 2 hours into the big city to some mysterious (gulp) Women’s Clinic. That would never do. Dearly beloved husband drives me to the appointment. We find the meat coloured building despite my directions…”Oh, go RIGHT to the stop sign, not RIGHT at the stop sign!” We enter the clinic and the 14 year old Goth Barbie behind the desk raises an eyebrow and says “Where’s your baby? This is a breastfeeding clinic you know”. Imagine my embarrassment. Oh shit! I brought the boobs, the first half of the equation, but forgot the vital other component! “You can come back another time you know,” the receptionist said haughtily. Ahhhh, no thanks. One 2 hour drive per week is good. I sheepishly took a seat amongst the other woman with both boobs AND babies. I felt like such an idiot, especially since my baby would have been the coolest since he can walk and talk while there little bundles just laid their opening their cavernous mouths to release shrill quacking cries. Yes, Peanut would have won the coolest kid award. My kid is the biggest and best, so there you baby-remembering mamas. Of course this would be only approximately the second time we’ve left Peanut at home in his whole life. Of course.

It was finally my turn so into the little Mommy-friendly exam room we go. Pictures of cute (but not AS cute as mine) babies lined the walls. The specialist (still not sure what her official guru title is) listened with a healthy mix of disbelief, horror and sympathy. At the end of my speil: “Hello. My boobs are ready to fall off. Please kill MACH6 and get this horrendous ass carcass taste out of my mouth” she took a deep breath and formulated a plan.

The only approach is to wean. Yes, wean. I was a bit sad to hear this, which is kind of odd, considering. I mean, breastfeeding has been one hellish nightmare after another between the sore nipples, tongue tied baby (akin to having rubber bands snapped repeatedly on wet, chapped nipples – you should try it, its character building), recurrent thrush, bastard MACH1 thru MACH6 infections, the joys of teething and biting, and most recently, the freakish looks from every single member of society when they see a half grown human sprawled across your lap and suckling away. Yes, I was surprised that the emotion in the forefront of my mind was sadness. The end of an era. “But I LOVE him!” I thought, somehow equating the sacrifice of having your breasts fall to the ground in ball of flames with the deep unconditional love you can only really appreciate after creating a mini-man-you.

The mystery specialist went on to explain the protocol. In addition to the horse dose of garlic athlete’s foot flavoured pills I would now be adding a hormone pill to the mix for 7 days. Apparently my problem was overabundant milk supply, that which would never, ever dry up on its own, even if my son was 32 and the head of a major accounting firm. Wishful thinking wouldn’t do the trick, let’s bring out the big guns. Oh, and she hoped the nausea that accompanies such things wouldn’t be too bothersome. And hadn’t I always dreamed of sporting a stylish beard?

Now that the first component, the boobs, were addressed, it was time to come up with the master plan for Peanut. The little munchkin would have to be cut back. And she means NOW. No more free lunch, so to speak. Replace nursings with cow’s milk when possible. And while you’re at it, you should probably purchase one of those little electric milking devices. Not sure if it’ll help the MACH6 problem, but it will help you appreciate your bovine counterparts that much more.

OK? OK.

See you in one week. And bring your kid next time. We need to see him in action.

With my head reeling I stumbled from the clinic. OK, so somehow I have to survive a 9 hour roadtrip to the inlaws and Christmas festivities while convincing Peanut that he really doesn’t need his mama any longer. That should be fun. Oh, lets not forget about MACH6 still reeking havoc on my system making me feel like death is at my door, while the antibiotics to combat MACH6 make my breath smell like death’s door. And in case that wasn’t enough, lets mix some hormones in there to see if a little stray facial hair and esophageal sphincter spasms won’t liven things up.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change….

Surprisingly its not going too bad so far. I still feel like death is stomping the snow off his boots and getting ready to knock on my door. My breath seems to have wilted my inlaws Christmas tree upon arrival. My boobs are like two giant, painful watermelons filled with liquid hot magma. I am queasy and my five o’clock shadow would rival even my dearly beloved (and HE’S as furry as an Ewok!). BUT, Peanut is doing GREAT and that is all that matters. He is still his happy little self and is moving on with this new stage of his life just fine. My little boy is growing up (sniff, sniff) As long as he’s good, I’m good. We’ll get through this, just like we got through all of the other challenges thus far. It sucks (ha!) but such is life.

And if anything, the dear little boy is doing his part to make this easier on me. Rather than cry and scream and repeatedly say “Mama! Mama!” in a frantic voice he simply smiles up at me as I offer him one of the infrequent and rare feedings as chomps down with his sharp little teeth into the tender, engorged magma filled boobs. When I scream “OUCH!!!!!” in horror and attempt to get him the hell away from the danger zone he simply giggles, shows those dimples and bites down again. What a good, thoughtful and sweet soul to do his part to make this all the more easier on me!

Rest well my friends, until we meet again (that is assuming you will still recognize me with a stylish goatee and Double Ds).

Tam-Bam-Thank-you-Ma’am