Harvey took a bottle today. Which is technically a good thing. We've been trying to get him interested over the past several weeks, but his reaction has been barely luke warm. Then this afternoon he woke up from a nap starving, but I was on an important call. So Judy fed him a bottle of pumped milk, and miraculously he drank the whole thing! Then when I got off the phone I nursed him to top it off. And he bit me. Hard.
He also bit me later in the evening when our errand to the bottle store took us several minutes past his feeding time. And it's not like I can explain to him that HEY HARVEY, I'M GOING TO THE BABY CRAP STORE TO SPEND MY HARD EARNED MONEY ON MORE CRAP FOR YOU! SO HOPEFULLY YOU END UP WITH A BOTTLE THAT YOU DISDAIN LESS THAN THE PLAGUE! IT'S NOT LIKE I'M STOPPING AT THE STARBUCKS GETTING MYSELF A LATTE, BECAUSE GOD FORBID WE SHOULD EVER RUN AN ERRAND THAT INCLUDES SOMETHING FOR MOMMY. No, the baby is immune to both sarcasm and capital letters. He only understands "I am hungry" and "There will be biting for this."
If it were up to me we would never have entered this world of pumping and biting and eighty-dollar bottle-store purchases. With the pesky monetary demands of the family stealing so much of my daily attention, Harvey and I have a relationship that's primarily based on nursing. It's symbiotic supply and demand... until we gotta involve other people and farm-level equipment. And even with the modicum of freedom that the bottle provides, I feel like I'm giving up more than I'm gaining. Like Harvey's dependence on mommy. Like the knowledge that when I feel that milk drop down into place, there's a little boy around the corner just waking up from a nice dream of boobies.
All this because some people have the nerve to demand my presence sometimes in some capacity other than mother. If you're not a mother yourself, then you don't get it. You wouldn't get why I'd rather stay home every night of my life than have a nursing relationship with my baby that involves crying and biting.