I’ve avoided writing this post a bit because I don’t want to write these words: I’ve stopped pumping.
I love not pumping. I hated being connected to a machine. I hated that there were times my son wanted me to do things with him, but I was busy milking myself. But as a last physical link with him – me being able to so directly provide him with what he needs – it’s been a bit upsetting to stop. I pumped for the last time on the 8th of September. That was over a week ago, and I still have milk stashed in the freezer. He gets it mixed with cow milk and seems completely fine with that. His father even gives him all cow at times, and he’s still fine with it. Sigh.
And other big changes are afoot. We live in my husband’s house – a house he bought with his ex-wife and raised his first children in alone when she left him. I have done a lot to it over the last 9 years, but it has never been mine. So we are finally moving. We’ve actually already signed a contract on our next house. I love it. I love the area, I love the living spaces, I love the period details, I love the kitchen. And I love that it will be the house I raise Sparky in. It is walking distance to cafes, shops, walking tracks, the bush, parks, what will one day be Sparky’s school, and the CBD. We took less time to decide we’d put an offer in on this house than I take to decide what to order off a menu. We have lots of work ahead to sell up, but not much work to do once we’re in the new house.
Changes – good and not as good. But changes.