Palkónapló: My nine-month-old son is addicted to pacifiers

Palkónapló: My nine-month-old son is addicted to pacifiers
Palkónapló: My nine-month-old son is addicted to pacifiers
Anonim

I got to the point where I looked around the apartment every now and then, ste althily, to see where those Kandi cameras might be. Because as the weeks went by, I felt more and more like I was the victim of some big joke, or that a group of British scientists were doing some super secret experiment on us; maybe the UFOs manipulated my milk, and now, like a new-generation Bezzeganya prototype, they are testing how long my breasts can feed my child, in Hungarian: should we breastfeed him until the age of 18 or not.

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And it would have been fine up until now, I just objected that they forgot to adapt my brain to this new way of life. Because it's cute, not cute, I was worried by the fact that Palkó, at almost nine months old, is still living exclusively on breast milk. In vain I reassured myself that he would only get the taste once, open his mouth to the delicious fruit pulp or cooked vegetables, feel sorry for his mother who tries every day for just one bite, but no. Palkó only believes in mother's milk, before breastfeeding he squeals impatiently and desperately, wags his arms, and then reverently swallows the stuff, drunkenly, like a drug addict, until he falls asleep.

I won't bore you with the details. How many times, how I tried and gave up for days in the hope of a brighter future, how many ways Palkó spat, growled, growled, laughed, cried out the pumpkin, apple, banana, rice pulp, apricot, peach, carrot stuffed in his mouth, all of these separately, combined with each other, mixed with breast milk, formula or potatoes, whatever you can, first boiled, then pureed, two or three people asking, playing, begging.

Because yes, there was a real drama going on in the high chair, and sometimes I would have preferred to leave the whole thing, but in the meantime I felt that it shouldn't be, that Palkó, who had been sleeping without a sound for months, would get up twice to eat again through the night, because at nine months the milk itself is no longer nutritious enough, or I can't keep up with the growing demand, and anyway, my sweet son, finally understand that your mother's breast will not be with you for the rest of your life, it's about time also accept alternative forms of nutrition.

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Then one day, unexpectedly, my milk dropped drastically. I don't know how it could have happened, because on this particular day I was the embodiment of freshness and relaxation, I slept a lot, ate and drank as much as usual, I wasn't nervous, so to this day I don't understand how it could have happened, but there was no milk in the evening. At first, Palkó tried persistently, but finally he collapsed in frustration, with such reproachful eyes that (staying strictly on the subject) I almost devoured him. So I started making milk at a fast pace, around seven in the evening: I drank two bottles of non-alcoholic beer, a liter of orange juice, gulped down half a pizza, and melted a box of milk-making berries under my tongue. In the meantime, I kept trying to feed Palkó, I breastfed him, tried to give him skimmed milk and fruit puree, but he didn't even open his mouth, we just spread it all over him. And of course on the high chair, the floor, the wall and on me too. Stalemate, Palkó was gagged, and I got a nervous breakdown from the fact that this child cannot be fed, but neither can he be put to bed, because if I put him down, he just screams that the mattress is burning his empty stomach. Great. The first child who starves to death while being fed.

It was already one o'clock in the morning, my husband and I sat exhausted on the edge of the bed, in the dark, listening to Palkó, who had been complaining continuously since eight in the evening. Then my husband suddenly jumped up and, with a flickering spark of deadly determination in his eyes, took the child out of bed, telling me that he was going to feed him now, that I should stay still and sleep. Of course. No problem, if the child is hungry and screams, the mothers are taking a nap, that's obvious.

So I lay in bed and listened. It was quiet, I only heard my husband's voice sometimes, as he warned Palkó that a wall was coming. I almost laughed, but what was strange was that there was no moaning from Palkó and no scolding from my husband. I spent about a quarter of an hour, as girls' novels say: tossing and turning between doubts, when the two sleepy men with tousled hair appeared at the door, apparently in great agreement.

– What did you do with it? – I immediately jumped at my husband.

– I stuffed it. - The concise answer came, and while Palkó lulled himself to sleep by kissing the nipple (because there was no milk in it, it's sacrilege), he said that he had indeed forced food into the child's mouth, which he then swallowed without any objection, and they also consumed a half (!) bottle of apple and potato soup. According to him, Palkó simply does not understand that he has to open his mouth when the spoon is approaching. I suddenly didn't know what to say to that, and before I knew it, my husband was already asleep.

The child too, even until morning.

The next morning I had plenty of milk, I also drank a pot of breastfeeding tea, sure enough, but in the afternoon I felt again that my milk was low, it was going to be a rough evening. Never mind, I thought, I'll prevent the tragedy, I'll push the other half of the vegetable into Palkó after my afternoon nap. And when, after sleeping, Palkó peed off my breast, whining in frustration, I decided to take action. I put the child in a high chair, eat it, then I bravely danced the spoon in front of his mouth, then "The food is coming, sweetie!" with an exclamation, I tried to cram the pempey into my closed mouth. The first two bites slipped in surprisingly easily, but then Palkó started moaning, turning his head, and with a decisive movement knocked the spoon out of my hand so that the food landed in my hair.

I ran to get the stuff out of my head before it dried, Palkó started to paint, which suddenly made me feel like it's over, it's over, now I'm going to jump out of the window, I've had enough, when suddenly a divine spark ignited in my head, and epoch-making I have an idea. I went back to the child, took him out of the high chair and put him on my lap, close to my breast, as if I were breastfeeding him. That's how I gave him the snack. And Palkó, unbelievably, opened his mouth, took the spoon and started sucking. I was happy. And since then, with small steps, sometimes h altingly, but we are moving forward. Palkó now eats carrot-potato mash, peach-apple puree, and everything else that I subtly dip into them spoon by spoon. Of course, you have to breastfeed after every feeding, because she is flying, waiting, demanding, and cherishing every minute. In the evening, we also brush our teeth amid a big grin. First I brush those four serious teeth, then the delinquent bites the toothbrush a bit, while I just enjoy Palko, who will be nine and a half months old in three days, he has a small, busty head with a big tuft of fluff on the top of his head, and somehow he's getting more and more boyish, he doesn't have that compact baby shape anymore.

And yesterday, Lackó excitedly called me into the great room saying that Palkó was sitting on the carpet. And really, a bit haphazardly, a bit half-heartedly, but Palkó sat up yesterday, grinning happily, I could almost read in his eyes that look, mommy, do you see what a big boy I am?

I see baby. And I'm so proud of you..

Panzej

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