That's right. I tasted my own breastmilk. Don't lie. You would've tasted yours too. I just wanted to see what the hype was all about. You mention the word "milkies" around these parts and my son's eyes go wide as saucers and he starts flailing his arms, hyperventilating. Lay him across my chest and he starts beating my breast and making "nom nom" noises. This would be even funnier if I was kidding, but if I had a third arm to videotape these shenanigans while nursing, I could prove it!
Truth be told, I was led to taste... the fruits of my labor... late one night of last week. That means I had lasted nearly a whole 12 weeks without tasting this apparent sweet nectar of motherhood. Shocking, I know. Carter had been acting particularly fussy one evening despite having just been fed, changed, bathed and jammied. Yes, jam-ied. The act of putting on ones jammies.
I had just pumped a meager 4oz post feeding and was determined to save that milk for the stash that I've, literally, been working my behind off to uphold for the all-day wedding affair that I'll be partaking in, sans Carter, next weekend.
Thinking, "maybe he just needs a top-off," Hubs and I decided we'd mix up a little formula. Afterall, we have nearly seven free cans of this stuff in our cabinet (the kind without beetle babies and body parts in it) collecting dust. Had it been any earlier in my child's time on this earth, or any earlier during the re-balancing of my female horomones, this decision would have sparked World War III and a whole slew of emotions that would rival any political or religious debate. Please don't jump down my throat, I only say this because I would have personally taken this decision as a personal affront and failure of my boobs. Up until this point, I just wasn't emotionally ready to introduce formula. Go ahead. Call me crazy. No? Okay, I'll call myself crazy. Ashley Paige, you're crazy.
Carter is now steadily moving further away from fussy and closer to near meltdown mode. I carefully follow the instructions on the back of the formula containter as I mix 2 ounces of bottled water with one "non-packed down" scoop of formula. God forbid I give the child Maryland tap water. I run the bottle under warm water and hand it off to my husband. As soon as Carter spots the bottle he calms and settles into "chug mode." This refers to the position that he voluntarily throws himself into either at the boob or within eyesight of a bottle.
I wish I had captured the look on this child's face after he took that first innocent, unknowing gulp. You would have thought we tried to feed him dirty sewer water. Tongue thrust reflex at it's best, Carter pushes the bottle out of his mouth and looks at my husband as if to say, "are you effing kidding me with that?" He then proceeds to turn to me with a look that said, "ok lady, if I tell you I'm not hungry anymore, will you promise to never, ever feed me whatever that was, ever again?"
In case we were misreading these signals, we tried again. Carter refused to open his mouth. We're talking lockdown. And this kid isn't one to miss meals. Have you seen those thigh rolls? Thinking, "what could the big deal be?" I tipped the bottle back and took a swig. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's just the formula brand, but if I had to liken the taste to something, I would have to say it was like swishing a mouthful of penny water around in my mouth. What is "penny water," you say? Well, that's what water would taste like if you threw a handful of pennies into it and swirled it around. A little minerally. A little coppery. Clearly none too delectable.
So much for that 5oz I was hoping to freeze. Out of sheer motherly guilt, I grab the breastmilk from the fridge, set it in a bowl of warm water, all while promising Carter to never, ever make him drink that concoction ever again.
Of course, now I'm intrigued.
I look at my husband. He looks at me. I dare him to take a taste. Needless to say he staunchly refuses. Secretly quite captivated with the idea myself, I try it. I mean, I'm like a freaking milk factory. I leak this stuff all hours of the day, it's only a matter of time before I tried it, right?
No wonder Carter is particular about his milkies. I have two words for you. Sweet cream.
And I promise to never, ever talk this much or go this indepth about... the fruits of my labor... ever again.