I quit pumping.  There, I said it.  I made it six weeks and feel like I have given Jolie a good (enough) start and am ready to let Nestle take it from here.  I know that breast is best, but formula ain’t a bad second choice.

Avelyn met Jolie for the first time when we brought her home from the hospital, all bundled in her car seat, surrounded by blankets.  She looked her over and we told her, “This is your baby sister, Jolie.”  She kind of shrugged and seemed neither impressed nor dismayed.  Not a bad first meeting.

Cue to two hours later:  Avelyn had just woken up from a long nap and she came walking into our bedroom where I was seated on the bed, nursing* baby Jolie.  Avelyn immediately started bawling, and wailing, and trying to claw her way up onto my lap.  I tried to put my arms around her while Jolie fed, but it was no use.  Avelyn cried so hard that she was gagging and dry-heaving, so squarely did the reality of the situation hit her.  I felt so overwhelmed, like there was no way we could make this new family situation work, like I had betrayed my firstborn.  It was miserable.

Thankfully, within a few hours Avelyn had really warmed up to Jolie and since then has been an excellent helper, offering blankets and soothers and (somewhat overzealous) hugs and kisses for her baby sister.  When Jolie cries, Avelyn whispers to her, “Don’t cry, baby.  It’s OK.”

We have had lots of company around to give Avelyn some extra love and attention so I think that distraction has also helped ease the transition.  My parents are here and without their help I am quite certain I would be dead right now, since Steve has been picking apples since we got home from the hospital.  (Note to self: don’t have a baby in the middle of apple harvest.)

So that’s the sisterly update:  a startlingly rocky introduction but things are getting better everyday.

*Remember how I said nursing was going great?  Well, the honeymoon period ended as soon as my milk came in and my boobs ballooned to the size of medicine balls, making it impossible for Jolie to latch.  So, I’ve been pumping.  And you know what?  I love it.  It’s so familiar, and it frees me up to let other people feed her, all the while knowing she’s still getting high quality breast milk.  I know that some people love breastfeeding, but if e’er there was a women meant to bottle-feed, you’re looking at her.

Do you know what my most vivid memory of breastfeeding Avelyn is?  I was sitting in a hard-backed chair in her nursery, my 18-pound boob resting on my lap, while Steve tried to pin Avelyn’s arms down to keep her from angrily flailing about as he unsuccessfully attempted to ram her tightly closed mouth onto my aching body.  She was screaming; I was crying.  It was miserable.

I don’t want to breastfeed our next baby.  But I am going to try, because I know it’s the best source of nourishment and I want to give it an honest effort.  And nursing is a two-way street; it takes a willing child and mother to make it work.  Avelyn was too easily frustrated and had no interest in tolerating my flattish nipples.  Perhaps this next baby will be wide-mouthed, hungry and diligent.  But if he or she isn’t, and I have to dust off my breast pump in order to make my milk available, I will.  I just don’t know for how long.  I pumped for nearly seven months with Avelyn but I doubt I’ll have the energy or time to do that for this new baby while also chasing after a toddler.  I don’t want to feel guilty if I pull out the Good Start after a couple months.  But I know I will, at least for a few hours.

There is so much more to being a mother than breastfeeding, and if I am going psycho from pumping at 1 am, 3 am, and 5 am for months on end and I become a zombie mom who is too tired and irritable to take care of my kids, it’s not worth it.

Anyone know a good wet nurse?

The flu bug has left the building.  He left us a little worse for wear but we made it through.  On Friday night I collapsed into bed at 7:30 pm and slept for 12 hours.  I didn’t even hear Avelyn wake up the two times she did and Steve was a good poppa and tended to our sick girl so his sick wife could snore her troubles away.  I can handle the cold symptoms:  runny nose, sore throat, general malaise.  But I was rocked by the fever that came over me.  You know that feeling where you’re just achey all over and you want to crawl out of your skin?  That’s what I was contending with.  I tried to pick apples on Saturday morning but it was cold and rainy and my hands were numb and after a couple hours I was feeling the urge to pass out.  I stumbled back into the house, had a severe case of diarrhea, then sat on the bathtub floor while a hot shower coursed over my shaking body.  It was bad.  I slept for a couple more hours then was feeling better.  Yay!  Still fighting the cold symptoms but the fever had broken so I could deal.

Today I am amazed at the return of my energy.  When I sick I am such a pessimist.  As I writhe in bed I am stricken with thoughts like, “I will always feel like this.  I will never regain my strength.  This is it.  I will be sick foreverrrrrr.”   Really uplifting, I know.  Today the thought of cleaning up my kitchen doesn’t make me want to curl up in the fetal position and weep softly under my duvet.  It just makes me feel kind of tired and like I should just watch some TV instead.  Which is how it usually makes me feel, so I’m glad to see I’m back on my game.

All in all, it was a good weekend. Steve’s brother and his girlfriend (who just so happens to be an amazing musician.  Please go forth and check out her website, become enamoured with her music and buy her CDs.  You shan’t be disappointed) came for a surprise visit and helped with the apple harvest.  It’s true what they say that many hands make light work.   Thanks, guys!

Looks like Avelyn has inherited my disdain for apple picking.

Also, do you like my double chin, and my glasses and my greasy hair?  It’s a look I like to call, “I was just quivering on the bathtub floor a few hours ago, so SHUT UP”.

A sampling of the mayhem that ensues when me and mon frere are together:

Today we picked some apples from the orchard.

Then we decided to take action shots of us jumping in the orchard rows.

Look at that vertical!  He’s a basketball player.

I, on the other hand, have the grace of a ballerina.

I am a terrible jumper.  I can only get about an inch of air, then I land like a freak.

We had a lovely time hanging out with the trees.

And Avelyn enjoyed the fruits of our short-lived labour.

I spy with my little eye:  a Toyota Land Cruiser, a refrigerator the size of Memphis, a riding lawnmower, an apple press, a ladder, an oven, another lawnmower, a La-Z-Boy recliner, a Corolla, a shameless husband wearing camo pants circa 1991, a baby with a curly mullet who’s striking an frighteningly proud pose, and the invisible shame of the photographer.

Welcome to our carport.