Aside from the drooly, cranky, snotty mess he became during that month, my dear child also learned to use his sharp little mouth razors to bite things. Things like my shoulder, my arm and, yes, my boobs.
[Insert photo of
Henry Chompers McGee with teeth showing, had he cooperated at all for one second. No thank you, Mommy. Maybe later.]
Remember way back one hundred thousand years ago when I confessed that I didn't want to give up nursing?
Well, I'm getting a little tired of it. Henry has surmised that the quickest way to get my full, rapt attention while he's nursing -- if he, for example, wants to switch to the other boob and I'm too busy sleeping in an upright position to notice (the nerve!) -- is to bite. When I cry out in pain, he giggles.
I'm going to go on faith here and assume my child is not a sociopathic masochist but instead a curious monkey who is fascinated that he can provoke such a reaction. I'm magical! he must think in his little brain.
It was never great, but with my toothless muppet baby, I didn't mind. Now, the straw + teeth combo is becoming tiresome.
But guess what? Henry turns 11 months on Monday. That means we are at T-5 weeks to weaning. I suspect the full wind-down will take a little while, especially for the early morning feeding. Other than that, I think he will be okay with a bottle. I will almost certainly be okay with a bottle, particularly in the middle of the night. As will Rayne (mwah-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaa).
Oh, sweet bundle of happiness, love, light and razors -- you can chew on the bottle nipple (and almost anything else) to your heart's content. Your Moo Cow's
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