Sort of. Mark finally returned from a business trip, a day late. I'm exhausted. We had said we would start working on the night weaning as soon as he got back, but I wasn't sure I had the stamina to start tonight.
(I mentioned a while back I was going to night-wean MJ, who will be 3 next month, sometime during the pregnancy. I don't do nighttime tandem nursing.)
I nursed MJ to sleep — that's part of the plan, I am not planning to cut out this nursing session — and fell asleep next to her (instead of switching places with Mark next to her, per the night-weaning plan). About 3 in the morning she tossed and turned and I woke Mark up and asked him to take her to the toilet, something we have to do once a night to prevent bedwetting.
He brought her back to me. I wasn't going to refuse to nurse her, but I admit I was a little slow to deploy the breast. That's when she started pummeling me. Kicking and squealing. "Hey! Hey!" I muttered, putting my hands up to block the little drumming feet. "What's wrong?"
She sat up to a kneeling position, balled her little hands into fists, and began to pound on my back. "I hate you!" she informed me.
"Mark, she's beating me up," I muttered, and rolled myself into a ball and went back to sleep as Mark picked her up. This is the first-trimester privilege: Dealing with pummeling, squealing children in the middle of the night is Not My Job. I didn't bother to listen to find out whether Mark carried her downstairs or cuddled her in the other bed or what. The pummeling stopped and that meant I could go back to sleep.
She didn't ask to nurse again, but slept through (and is still sleeping at quarter to nine in the morning). I wonder if she wasn't awake, but was dreaming? Anyway, that was the first night. I suppose you'll think I'm silly if I exclaim that it went much better than I expected?
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