And like most things, it ended with a whimper, not a bang.
My last official day of pumping was March 18, 2010, exactly seven months after greeting our little Bear to our world. I made it seven solid months of pumping and I'm pretty darn proud of myself. I can't think of one thing on a daily basis for seven months - diets, making my bed, working out - and through all of the crying, complaining, and flat-out swearing, I made it. Three breast pumps, four sets of pumpers, countless ounces of spilled milk on my counters, I made it.
I'm also really happy that Scotty had almost exclusively breast milk for the first six months of his life. After I hit the six month mark, I started to eliminate one pump every few days, and eventually end up only pumping once a day for about a week. I was only getting about three ounces at that point, and for twenty minutes worth of work, I decided to throw in the towel.
And what did I do to celebrate? Well, Brian and I tossed around a few ideas. After all, this is the first time my body has belonged to me and just exclusively me for the better part of two years. I don't know if you know what that feels like (unless of course, you just had a baby and are breast feeding, too), but it's weird. Just plain weird. All the fun things in life - caffeine, alcohol, cold medicine, dairy - were shelved completely during the process of conceiving and pregnancy, and after the birth, then I gradually added a few things back in (mainly caffeine and wine.) But now? My body is allllll mine. What a weird feeling. I don't have to worry about onions and garlic. A second cup of coffee? Sure, why not. A three day vodka bender? Bring it on. (Just kidding, Mom.)
So Brian and I thought maybe I should have a stiff drink. Or a hit of a crack pipe. (again, just kidding). But in the end, I settled for some Advil to help with my back pain. Along with several other body parts, I don't think my back will ever be the same again. After hoisting around an additional 47 pounds during the pregnancy, I followed that up with grueling back labor and seven months of being hunched over a breast pump six to eight times a day. My chiropractic bills are going rival our wedding.
So anyways, I'm pretty happy. I'm doing far less dishes during the day (since those nasty pumpers have been boxed up and sealed from the light of day, much in the manner of the Arc of the Covenant in Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Arc.) Scotty is sleeping like a champ and I'm not rushing off to pump, so my days are literally...luxurious. I kind of feel like I'm cheating. Like this is supposed to be harder. But it's not. And that is fine with me.
Remember how I once complained that stay-at-home-moms have a harder day than working mom? Yeah, that's not true anymore. I think I was really sleep-deprived (read: crazy) when I wrote that. You couldn't force me back to work if you tried. (Just ask Brian. I told him I would have to be hog-tied and dragged to an interview, and when he removed the bandana from my mouth, I would shout at the interviewer, "Don't pick me! Don't pick me! I'm a terrible worker!" Poor Brian has no idea that I am never going back to work. I got a slice of the stay-at-home pie...and I'm loving it.)
And best yet, I even hired someone to come once a week for "Me-Time." This is usually three to five hours that I entrust the little Bear to our lovely baby-sitter, and I hightail it to Target, the gym, or the nail salon. (I know, I know, please stop gagging.) And last week, a lunch date with friends was canceled at the last minute, so with three hours ahead of me and an afternoon without a baby, I thought to myself, "Where can I go to relax and eat a nice meal?"
And so I ended up at my favorite spot in all of Las Vegas:
The Four Seasons.
Ahhh, tasteful elegance. I won't bore you with the details of my delicious lunch (Crab Louis salad, iced tea, lemon tart for dessert) but just know, I'm surviving this whole Motherhood thing just fine. (and it's not all easy...I had to send my salad back since I had asked for the dressing on the side. Then I lost my valet ticket, which translated to several awkward minutes waiting for my car.) Poor Brian came home from work that night as I excitedly told him about my day and his only comment was, "I guess I need to work harder to afford your me-time." Ahh, a husband who understands! I'm a lucky girl.