My dear friend ambushed me the other day: “so, what are your life goals at the moment?”
What a question. But that’s the way we talk to each other, the kind of thing we ask each other, and without sarcasm She knows me well, and although she knew I’d be comfortable answering honestly, “I finishing watching Season 2 of Vikings” wasn’t the answer she expected.
But that has been around about the extent of my ambition of late. I’ve missed blogging this past month or so, but haven’t felt confident enough to actually sit down and commit to the keyboard, after-hours style. I’ve sort of felt like hiding from myself for a bit.
My other resolutions, since I usually do some kind of resolution post around this time of year, is to finally give up using Facebook and instead go back to writing things down and calling people. And my phone. I don’t need a smartphone, I really don’t. Except to map my cycling. Bugger.
But really it’s all about the boobies. Life is lived around boobies. The boobies – day, night, morning, evening, times of he day I never even knew were times when people are alive and awake and stuff, realising I can just about survive on being awake 90% of the night, every night, if I can just live with that permanent hungover feeling I have. All. The. Fucking. Time. And I don’t even drink.
Everything - goal, aim, ambition – in my life has become a post-breastfeeding thing. I’ll do that when she stops feeding. I’ll stop feeding her and then I’ll be able to do more of this. You know what I mean, right? And I wanted to let her self-wean, I really did, and I love her so much, of course, but I can’t do it anymore.
I can’t live life around my tits. And I don’t anyone else to either. I can’t go on until she is possibly one day ready to pack it in, I’ve got to take action. ACTION.
And with action toward change comes reflection. The first feed, the quillionth feed, the purramonillianth feed.
And then the thought comes that one day maybe she’ll read this and that’ll be terrible that she’ll know that when she was 2.5 years old, her mother didn’t want her to breastfeed 130% of the day anymore. And then I remember that no, I don’t want to feed anymore, and it means nothing dreadful about our relationship other than my breasts need a break for the rest of my life, a retirement home in the Keys and several contemplative sunsets on the balcony. And daily rides in a golf buggy across artificially-moist turf and a thousand cortados and biscotti.
I needed to kick-start my writing head with this. It isn’t much, but just know that while I lay awake killing my back half of every night, feeding a child who may never have had enough of my tits, I’m thinking of you, loyal readers, and wishing I had something more than wordy-vom to offer you right now.