The child formally known as Boob Baby

Well that’s it. My body is officially mine again and I never have to breastfeed for the rest of my life.

There’s some real positives to this;

– No more making sure my tops have easy access

– No more bloody expressing

– Alcohol

– Lots of alcohol

– Normal, regular person bras

– No more excuses from Mr DD along the lines of ‘aaahhhhhh, he’s probably hungry’. From now on our nipples have an equal status in this house.

However, my children have left my breasts… weathered. Or withered. Or a shadow of their former selves, and diagnosing what is wrong with your child rather than just sticking them on the boob is annoying. Actual parenting, ergh. Judging by his behaviour I’m fairly certain he has only been tolerating me so far because of my previous powers of lactation. While it’s lovely to hear how happy he is while being cared for by others, it would be nice if he kept the odd smile for his parents. At home he has set his scream dial to 11 and won’t budge.

So to you my boy, stop growing and think about your at home attitude. You can walk-ish, talk-ish and sometimes even sleep-ish. You can climb, and answer back and dance.

You’ve formed an alliance with Spotty Crotch that I could only dream of. One day soon I will find you next to the open fridge feeding your buddy contraband. That dog tolerates me, would die for Mr DD and play with the MD but you kiddo he will follow forever.

Bye bye to the baby years. I know we’ll look back with fond memories but for now, I’m looking forward to prolonged periods of sleep, solo showers and two little shits to yell ‘NO’ at me. That’s the dream.