Breastfeeding and Preschoolers (Not Breastfeeding Preschoolers)

I wish that I had written that post below.  (Instead, I found it posted on Facebook.)  As I am mildly obsessed with breastfeeding as of recently, I had to resist the urge to cheer after I read it for the first time.  After Patrick was born, I would have been mortified to have been breastfeeding in public.  I did it very, very infrequently, and only extremely well-hidden.  Even sitting at home with family, I would often excuse myself to the next room to get the job done.  Anymore, I really couldn't care less who is offended by it.  And, as calloused as it sounds, I also can't be bothered by worrying if it makes anyone uncomfortable (though, realistically, I can understand why it would.)  It boils down to this: when the baby is hungry, it needs to eat.  I'm not embarassed that I'm responsible for feeding him.  If anyone catches a peek, so be it.  I'm still not embarassed.  I have a job to do.  I do it.  There is something about the ability to feed and comfort a baby in a way that no one else can that is primitively satisfying.  Also, the calming effect of the hormones released while nursing a baby help to counteract the stress of having three very little and very crazy kids.  Everyone wins.  So there.

On to the other point of this post: Patrick.  My oldest, about whom I learned something yesterday.  Rather, I learned something about ourselves (meaning Adam and me as parents.)  I was talking to a woman at work, who was telling me stories about her kids, now grown.  As she discussed her oldest, she said, "...and we were so hard on her.  It always goes that way with the oldest.  We didn't know.  Someone had to be first, right?"  In my head I thought, We never did that.  We would never...wait, what?  Oh no.  We did.  We do.  Oh God.

Oh, Patrick.  He is such a great kid.  So smart and funny.  Such a good heart.  He has his flaws, though, and we are...so hard on him.  All the way home from work, I couldn't stop thinking about him.  I was thinking about the times I snapped at him because I had had a bad day.  The times I got so frustrated with him for melting down, expecting more of him and forgetting that he's so young.  He's only three.  My guilt was at an all-time high. 

As I got home, I was thrilled that he was still awake.  I got him out of bed and we read a book.  For a little while, it was just the two of us, and as we hung out, we got to talking.  My heart warmed over.  Hard on him or not, we have a pretty good (and clever) little boy.  So, Patrick, if you're reading this when you get a little older, I'm so sorry.  But, really, I think you're going to turn out ok. 

Here is proof:

Patrick started to tell me about school.  He discussed his teacher, who he referred to by her first name..  I corrected him, and said that he was to call her Mrs. Conner. 

Patrick: But all of my friends call her *****.
Mom: That's fine.  But if all of your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?
Patrick:  They did?! Maybe.  Which bridge is it?
Mom: You are extremely smart, Patrick.
Patrick: Well, you're extremely beautiful, Mom.

Either you'll turn out well because of us or in spite of us, but I have a feeling you are going to grow up to be great, kiddo.  Still, I'm so sorry, Patrick.  I'm working on it. Promise.