I feel miserable and rejected.  The fact that she won’t nurse is constantly on my mind when I interact with her.  I’m trying so hard not to let my frustration with it change the way I feel about myself as a mother, but failing.

Failing.

Worse than that, this stress, this ball of guilt and anger in my chest, is impacting my milk production.  I sit in the nursery with her with that fucking pump attached to my chest and I WAIT, WAIT to see the bottle fill with my milk, WAIT to make a meal for her because she won’t just take it fresh from the source.

But I’m not making “enough”.  I’ve pumped out only eleven ounces today.  I’ve divided it up — three, four, two, two.  Three for breakfast, with a bowl of cereal.  Four for lunch.  Two in the late afternoon, with some bread and green bell pepper.

Two for bed.

Not enough.

I mixed that last two ounces with formula to total five ounces, after trying desperately for half an hour to pump out more.  I feel like a failure.  What am I supposed to do? Put her to bed hungry?  Watch her cry and whine and sob, refusing my breast?  I’m not going to starve her in the hopes that she’ll decide to come back to me.

I stood there over the crib, watching her drink from the bottle, her eyes fluttering shut.  When she fell asleep I took the bottle. I wanted to throw it across the room and scream.

How can my body be failing HER?

Do you know what this means?

This means I can go bra-less at night!  I can sleep naked.

I am so incredibly happy about this.  I mean, seriously.  There’s nothing quite like watching your husband try to ignore the fact that there is a big wet spot under your breast on the fitted sheets.  I don’t have to experience the horror of waking up because my boobie is cold because my bra is wet, or experience finding a wet spot on the sheets because I forgot to re-clasp my bra after feeding Maia.

I could dance.

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