This Is Me

It is that time again. That time where pain fills my heart as I make a decision that hurts me. Again. I think back to one year ago when I had to give up breastfeeding. It still hurts. I can't even explain why. I'm in that position again. The guilt swallows me up. Who knew it would be this hard? I have decided to stop expressing breast milk for my son. I have been exclusively expressing for thirteen months now. I think that's a brilliant achievement.  I have come to that point where my life is getting a little uneasy; when my son was a tiny baby I could put him down in his Moses basket while I pumped and that was that while I watched over him. Now, due to the fascination he has with my pump, he climbs all over me, spills my milk and makes the whole experience pretty stressful. But that's not my only reason. There are so many reasons, but they all feel so selfish. I have put my son first for thirteen months, it's hard to change that. I could stop expressing in t...

It IS my last spoonful. I promise this to myself every time I venture back into the deliciously smooth chocolate spread. It's 10am and I have eaten half of the jar. I feel bad. I look down and check that I can still see my toes. I'm not sure that I can. I wobble back and forth and then my son starts crying again so I dismiss my search. I decide to head back into the kitchen. Oh, I haven't actually left yet. I scoop out another spoonful. Diego is a year old already. Time is flying. It feels like only yesterday I held my newborn in my arms. So tiny. So quiet. Today I'm wrestling with my active crawler. Sometimes I'm brushing off stranger's frowns as my baby practices using his vocal chords to their max. I am learning to accept that a slap in the face is, apparently, hysterically hilarious. So of course, I am receiving these on a daily basis too. Who ever knew that clapping hands made the same incredible sound as slapping mummy across the face? Oh, Diego does. ...