As I write this, I’m now more than a year removed from breastfeeding, and I am 100% glad for it. With no more baby brewing in my future, it truly is a welcomed feeling having my body back as “my own.” I have fond memories of that time though; the quiet mornings nursing, the pride in literally giving life to your child. But also, there resides a perhaps, not so expected and cherished memory that I want to share today. That is my experience with breastmilk donation.
As I write this, Maddie is officially 38 weeks old—exactly how long she was in utero. “38 weeks in, 38 weeks out.” I’ve been fortunate enough to have an amazing breastfeeding journey with her these past 8.5 months, and while I never envisioned going beyond a year, this weird part of me isn’t ready for it to end in a couple of months.
Is it because she’s my last baby? Is it because it’s actually kind of easy this go-round? Is it because breastfeeding is literally the only thing allowing me to skip the gym AND burn calories? I guess it will remain a mystery… 😉