She's 21 months old. By all rights, a little girl, not a baby. She's sweet, stubborn, bad-tempered, loud mouthed, pushy, aggressive, wild, controlling.
So, basically, she's me. Only short and blond.
I'm DONE with nursing. Honestly, I just want to STOP. I've been either pregnant or breastfeeding for the better part of five years, and to be frank, I want my body back. I'd like to be able to get my other two wisdom teeth out, which give me a headache almost every day. I'd like to be able to have a second glass of wine without feeling guilty, to be able to skip a meal I don't want without worrying about ketones.
I'd like to be able to sit on the couch without being used as a fountain.
The problem is, we're too much alike. As much as I've decided she's done, she's decided to ramp up milk production by increasing demand.
Yes, that means every time I try to cut a feeding, she adds two more to make up for it. It's so bad, people, that I was scrubbing my kitchen floor at nine o'clock last night in the pitch black in an effort to do ANYTHING but sit down, where she could get me, crying "hug" and "nyuk a nyuk" and wiggling her hands piteously at me.
It would seem we are at an impasse.
I just want to be done with this part. She doesn't. Yes, I'm irritable and whiny and spoiled. I know. I know!
But seriously, 21 months was a good run, right?
Oh no, here she comes. Guess I'd better go find something to do, STAT.