11.03.2006

The Joy of Weaning

The Joy of Weaning

Reader, it is with great delight that I share the following news: in one scant week, my bosoms have already shrunk to the point where my bras resemble four-day-old latex party balloons. My back and my profile are ever so relieved. The girls themselves still seem more bouncy than droopy.

I have turned over my copy of Mothering magazine as I write this so that the nursing mom on the cover cannot reproach me--but FUCK YEAH, I am so happy to have weaned my toddler! Our bond of love, latching, and lactation was loverly while it was loverly, but after almost three years of sharing myself with Mali, I am grateful to be reclaiming my body. Here are some of the reasons why, feel free to add your own:

  • I can dye the holy hell out of my hair. (Not sure what colors are left though, as turquoise = Iz, purple = Badger, scarlet = SJ, and pink = Lea H.)
  • Batik! All those carcinogenic fabric dyes in the garage are just longing to come out and play.
  • That long-awaited Brad Pitt tattoo is mine!
  • Marijuana. Not that I would, right? But I could. Ahem.
  • Nipples. Repierce or not? I think my body looked glorious with gold rings hanging from the tips of the twins, but that was the body of almost ten years ago. Plus I would have to repossess the ring hanging from Badger's ear. Hmm. I'll revisit this in a few months.
  • Time to start swatting salmon from the nearest river with my bear friends, and sharing in their bounty. Fish fish fish, oysters oysters oysters, raw raw raw.
  • I can leave for as long as Seymour will hold the fort. Once he starts accruing vacation at his new job, that is.
  • Mali's beloved, nasty, tatty boppy can be disposed of. Eww.
  • My doctor will finally consent to do a cardio workup on me so I can gauge the extent to which I need to overhaul my feeding and exercise habits.
  • Nice bras! With fewer than four hooks in the back, with straps thinner than my wrist, without access panels.
  • Oh, wait, now I have to clean the cat's litter box again. Fuck. Well, the rest of it is all good.

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