That Time My One Year Old Took Me Out

Well, this blog is like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you’re gonna get. 

So yesterday’s post was on the serious/spiritual side.  Prepare yo’ self because this post…is not.

In fact, if you are a man or you’ve never nursed a baby before, there’s a strong possibility that you will consider this post TMI.  I give you permission now to gracefully bow out and not burden yourself with what is to come.  I mean, I really won’t know the difference either way.

A few weeks ago when we were out-of-town to spend time with Gigi, we were spending the night with my parents.  Arrow, who is making up for all those times he slept through the night at a ridiculously young age, was up at o’dark thirty nursing, when it happened.  He bit me.

I’m sorry, I didn’t say it loud enough.


There was fire and ice and I screamed and I think I blacked out for a second.  Josh, who was immediately on the alert, must have done something with the baby because the nursing session was definitely over.  And I cried.

Full disclosure, I wept.  For a long time.

I could tell Josh thought that I was going through more than physical pain because he was doing his best to silently comfort me and the baby in hopes of not waking Egan, who was in the floor.  Later, he gingerly asked, “Was it just the physical pain or were you releasing pent up emotions?”

And I truly wish I could have claimed to be releasing the emotions saved up from that very stressful week.  But I had to say, “It was really the pain!”

That morning, I tried to give Arrow a cup of milk for the first time because I just couldn’t bring myself to try to nurse.  He didn’t care for it, and I couldn’t let him not have milk, so I latched him for the first time that afternoon.

I was able to tolerate it at first, but the problem with a bad nursing bite is, every time there is a nursing session, the wound is re-opened.  I had a tooth-shaped hole that wasn’t going away.  And the pain was getting worse.

By Monday night, I couldn’t latch him without verbalizing discomfort.  Finally, on Tuesday, I did what every Millenial would do (WWEMD) and looked to the internet for help.

Ironically, that is when the internet decided it had nothing to say.

That night, I pulled out the ol’ pump in hopes of making something happen.  Ironically, Arrow is 16 months old and it’s the first time I’ve pumped for him at all.

And I will tell you, that pump saved the day.  It was so much more comfortable to pump.  Even though Josh was out of town and I had my nephew and it was certainly NOT THE WEEK I needed to add an hour and a half of pumping to my daily schedule, I made the time for it because it was what kept me from handing Arrow a cup of milk and telling him to have a nice life.

After a day and a half of strict pumping on that side I had to start nursing a few times a day because the pump wasn’t draining the breast well and it was getting engorged enough that it hurt just as much not to nurse as to nurse.  And now, 2 weeks after the fact, I can finally nurse comfortably.

Well, as Ma Ingalls always said, “There is no great loss without some small gain.”  I may have lost blood, tears, and a whole lotta time in this little adventure, but here is what I’ve gained:

  • Arrow is now officially drinking a cup of cows milk a day.  Although I’m not ready to wean, I AM ready to not be his sole milk source, and so we figured out a way to make him drink milk.  It may involve Ovaltine.  Whatever.  Don’t judge me.
  • I now have this picture:

That would be my baby drinking breast milk through a straw.  Can I please, oh please, use it in his senior yearbook, complete with the caption “Drinking mommy’s milk”?

It only seems right.


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