A couple of weekends ago, Josh, Matthew and I survived the trip out of the city to the suburbs to visit a Babies R Us. Would you believe we never once stepped foot into a Babies R Us - ever? Not at all during the pregnancy, not after Matthew was born until he was 8 months old. I got it into my mind that there were some baby items we DESPERATELY NEEDED. Next time, I’m just going to buy the stuff online.

Babies R Us’ slant is definitely toward babies/kidstuff, to be sure, but it was just… over the top. It signified to me why motherhood (I say that very specifically) seems like one big festering competition, and what I hate about motherhood. There’s this sort of undercurrent about motherhood that if you don’t buy brand new, very expensive… stuff… for your babies, you are a bad mother. Babies R Us personifies the commercialization of motherhood that has me itchy. My son does not need a $400 crib with a matching bumper and sheets and ruffle. My son does not need an exersaucer that has 400 toys attached to it and is so busy I got tired just looking at it. My son does not need expensive clothes he’s going to outgrow in a New York second. My son does not need half of the things in this store, and yet here they were, in my face, taunting me.

Buy me. Buy me. You know you should. Doesn’t Matthew deserve the best? If you really loved him, you would buy him that $3-4-500 stroller. If you really loved him, you would buy it all for him.

I am totally projecting, I know. But it’s the little things - the pressure from commercialization, the pressure from work (at home and not), the pressure from the stupid internet, the pressure everywhere - that drive people batshit crazy. And it seems targeted only toward mothers. Where are the fathers in all of this? Babies R Us had a mother’s room for nursing moms, presumably - but where was the father’s room?

So never again. I will do my shopping online, and I will try not to grow new neuroses. The ones I have work just fine.

Over the last few months, my milk supply has drastically tanked. I know this is in part due to Matthew starting solids (somewhat), and the pump being just not as efficient as Matthew, but the reality is that we’re staring down 14 ounces in the freezer to hold us over. At this rate, next week or the week after we’ll have to start supplementing, in some shape or form. I am upping my pumping sessions and started taking fenugreek (carefully, though, because it’s been known to cause low blood sugars in diabetics) to help up my supply, but I don’t want to go to extreme measures, for my health or Matthew’s.

I’m still going to pump, because I want to keep breastfeeding and providing as much breastmilk as I can, but I would be lying if I didn’t say it was killing me a little inside. I never thought I would enjoy our nursing relationship as much as I do, and at some point, after nursing got easy, I decided that I would let Matthew wean himself. I never considered that I’d stop before at least a year because my supply would tank spectacularly.

I am being completely irrational, I know - I provided over 8 months of breastmilk and that is better than 7 or 6 or no months of breastmilk. I know that formulas today are a fine substitute, and whatever Matthew does he will be just fine, he will continue to thrive and I will continue to nurse him as much as he wants to or can until my milk dries up.

I feel, irrational or not, like my body is failing me. As stupid as it sounds, I feel like I’m in mourning, a little.

I cried a lot yesterday.

All of this work is hard work. I knew that going in, but man, it is hitting me like a ton of bricks. I am up anywhere between 4AM and 6AM every day, tending to Matthew, pumping an engorged boob, or getting ready for work. I pump at least twice a day at work. I hate pumping. I leave work and arrive at home just in time for putting Matthew to bed. During the week I have a total of maybe 2 hours of alert and pleasant awake time with Matthew.

Then, there is dinner (which Josh prepares 99% of the meals), laundry, bottle cleaning (oh, how I hate bottle cleaning), sleeping, and it just goes on.

I know I’m not a bad mother - in my eyes, bad mothers are the abusive ones, the harmful ones, the hateful ones. And I have so much love for this little boy it’s amazing to me. But sometimes I don’t feel like a particularly good mother. And that really bothers me.