This Eph says, "Moo!"

In spite of the odds against us due to my breast reduction surgery, Oliver is breastfed. It was the cost savings and health benefits that sent us down this road, but it is the convenience that keeps me there. Now that I am back at work, I'm pumping three times a day (in an oh-so-lovely server closet). This week we are sending Oliver to daycare with five ounces in each bottle, instead of four. Until very recently, every drop I pumped went into the next day's bottles. Each day held a few moments of panic. What if I spill some? What if I can't pump enough for tomorrow and I have to mix in a little formula? Hardly the end of the world, but these are the thoughts of a woman obsessed with her milk supply and its' seeming fragility. I still don't drink coffee. I hesitated over going back on birth control, even the mini-pill. I take Fenugreek and Blessed Thistle capsules as though my life depended on it.

We have weighed Oliver daily since he came home from the hospital. This started because he lost nearly a pound in his first three days of life, but persisted due to fears about my milk supply as a BFAR mom. Over time, the ritual has evolved into a measure of my success as a mother. Two days at the same weight or worse, a half-ounce loss, and I am a bad mommy. Days like yesterday, when he gained two and a half ounces (despite pooping three times) and I must be doing okay. He's averaging a very respectable ounce per day, according to our Excel spreadsheet, yet I experience fear and anticipation every evening around weigh-in time.

So ENOUGH! Weekly weigh-ins from now on. It remains to be seen if this will result in less stress, as I hope it will, or if I will just worry more because I don't know for sure.

When I wear purple, does that make me a purple cow? I'd rather see than be one.