If you
want to apply labels to me based on what I do every day, you might want to call
me an attachment parenting, unschooling/relaxed homeschooling mom of 5 kids
who, no matter how splattered I am in baby drool, will insist of wearing a full
face of makeup to leave the house.
Despite
the above, I am also an unapologetic breastfeeding failure. I also failed algebra in high school – twice
– and I feel as bad about the latter as I do the former. Despite them both being part of a balanced
diet, they just don’t agree with me.
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| image courtesy of i-am-pregnant.com |
What makes
my breastfeeding failure so complete is the fact that of my five children, I
successfully breastfed one of them. The
problem is that this one moment of glory was not with Baby 5, which would have
been redeeming in the eyes of my AP sisters, but rather was with Baby 3. We
functioned in happy nursing bliss for almost 2 years before it was time to call
time on the milk bar.
And
somehow, despite this success, I couldn’t do the same for my last two babies.
Epic.
Fail.
