The Hardest Part

Probably the most gut-wrenching thing to witness at this stage is the transition from momma's boobie to daddy's bottle. The relationship between a nursing mother and her offspring is really something outside the experience or ken of men. I can only shrug and bear the heartfelt cries as Ilias pines for my wife, Sophia a.k.a. the Human Milk Jug.

I do my best to get some formula into him with the bottle, though we definitely fare better with pumped breast milk; but that in no way replaces the comfort of a warm boobie and a mother's arms. It is almost like watching an addict in the throes of withdrawal from their pharmacon of choice. But with an added element of innocence that is downright heart-breaking to witness. Almost makes me want to grow boobies... almost. ;)

In some ways I'm jealous of my son, especially when it comes to breast-feeding. Few people of my generation in North America were breast-fed. My generation was the test-bed for mass produced baby formulas. Perhaps this explains some of our idiosyncracies and proclivities. Perhaps. Suffice it to say, I was not breast fed. My mother opted for the convenience of a powder mix. So, like many others of my era, I have a thing for engorged breasts. I blame it all on Nestle.