The gorgeous boy is seven months old today. Seven months! He sits unassisted. Such a superstar.
Oh, he’s the best baby. Such a mellow temperament. His brother, on the other hand, is Mister Wild Child. There’s nothing mellow about that one!
I don’t know if seven months marks any particular milestone in the realm of post partum experience, but I am feeling like my hormones are completely and absolutely whacked. I’ve broken out with pimples all over my head, for crying out loud. My head. Blech! I can hardly remember how many years it’s been since I’ve had any acne to speak of, and now I have a festering scalp.
The skin around my fingernails is cracked with deep dry grooves that split and bleed and become tender, as in they hurt. The skin itself is hard and callous. Not a bit soft. Ouch. It’s a bit annoying.
I, myself, am somewhat exhausted. I suppose that’s understandable, with the sleep deficit increasing with no end in sight. The seasonal allergies don’t help. This season feels more extreme than others previous. My eyes are burning, red and scratchy, my nose is runny and I keep sneezing.
And then there’s the matter of the milk. I wonder if breastfeeding is painful for women who actually make it past the initial break in phase. Because pumping? Is not pleasant. There’s no warm fuzzy endorphin rush for or from my sleek blue milking machine. That ah-whoosh-click ah-whoosh-click ah-whoosh-click isn’t particularly soothing. My nipples being yanked through the unforgiving plastic cones is certainly no picnic either. And when it’s all done, those nipples look like aliens have landed and set up base camp. Should anybody brush against me, or God forbid, embrace me, I shrink away in pain. DON’T TOUCH ME!
I’m tempted to survey my freezer stash this weekend and think about weaning sooner than later.
There is a very selfish part of me that doesn’t want to stop, though. The pump time is MY time in which I get an hour to myself, reading, blogging, perusing Facebook, playing brain and word games, or otherwise amusing myself. It’s a reprieve that I might not have under different circumstances.
I find myself feeling a bit melancholy as well. I think it may be, in large part, empathy for friends and family over things they are feeling and experiencing lately. That, compounded with exhaustion, stress at work, and whacked hormones adds up to one big unsettled woman.
