The Battle of the Bottle Is Over

The battle of the bottle is over . . . and not a day too soon. Today is my last day of maternity leave. Well, actually, my last day of maternity leave was April 2, but that day came and went because Super Pooper refused to take a bottle. And when I say “refused” I don’t mean in the “no, thank you” kind of way; I mean in the blood curdling, acts as if being skinned alive, screaming kind of way.

In our battle of the bottle, we employed multiple tactics while Super Pooper used just one . . . the aforementioned blood curdling scream. While our strategies failed miserably, her maneuver made us manic.
Like my trusty dictionary says, we were in “a state of abnormally high excitement, especially because of tension.” Tension would be putting it mildly.
After several minutes of Super Pooper’s earsplitting wailing, Wonderful Husband became Desperate Husband. He would thrust her at me with a pleading look that said “Please make her stop!” Ah, the power of breasts. So of course I would nurse her and Super Pooper would be happy again. Why wouldn’t she be? She won that round.

This scenario continued despite trying three different formulas, four different bottle brands, six different nipples (I’m not exaggerating.),
rubbing the bottle nipple on my breast so it smelled like me, and even after I began the dreaded process of pumping breast milk. Mmmooooooooooooo!!! (Insert cow noise here.)

How did we ultimately win the battle you ask? I have no idea. One day it was just over. However, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she started taking the bottle better when someone other than Wonderful Husband tried to feed her (i.e., Grandpa). No offense to my darling hubby. He ventured onto the battlefield many a night, but I think Super Pooper found his Achilles heel.

And even though the battle is over, I’m a little sad. Although I couldn’t leave the house for more than two hours and I couldn’t get a decent block of sleep, I liked being the only one who could feed her. I know her taking the bottle is just the first step in a long succession of ones she’ll take to become independent from me. Sometimes the thrill of victory isn’t so thrilling.