53 hours

It's been 53 hours since my son last nursed. I probably sound pathetic to most anyone who might read my blog, and I just don't care. I'm hysterical, I'll admit it. I'm sure my hormones are a little wacky because of the lack of nursing, and I'm just completely irrational at this point. I've read it all and know nursing strikes are fairly common, usually last 2-4 days, etc. I just can't get over this and how much it's upsetting me. Alif made a joke about it this morning and I could have shoved him out a window. Seriously. I'm reading on the LLL website and this girl understands the gravity of how I feel about this:

I didn't know it at the time, but 12 days before this writing, my 11-month-old daughter, Dakota, stopped nursing. I wish I had known she was going to "go on strike," I would have treasured every moment of it. I would have smelled her hair, kissed her forehead, and looked into her big, beautiful eyes, savoring every second of our special time together.

Nursing strike seems like such a simple, self-explaining term. Well, that little term rocked my life and my soul. It felt as if I was mourning the death of a loved one. I was mourning the way that I mothered my child. Mothering through breastfeeding was all that I knew, and without it I felt useless, detached, defeated, and depressed. The experience was life altering.

After 12 days and nights, I woke this morning to my little angel starting to rouse. She tossed and turned and started to root. I lifted my shirt and scooted over to her as I had been doing every morning since the nursing strike began, just to give it a try. Like nothing had ever happened, she latched on. She nursed slowly and drowsily for about three minutes. I don't think I even breathed through the whole thing. I touched her head, looked into her sleepy eyes, and took one big whiff of her feathery-soft hair. With a kiss on her forehead I whispered, "Welcome back, my Angel."