Ever since my dear sweet daughter was born, I have acquired a new body part. It is not a particularly flattering part, but it is a practical one. This new part is attached to my derriere, and it molds perfectly to the backside of my body, gives my poor legs (which are still carrying around some baby weight) a much-needed rest, and rocks in a very soothing rhythm.
Yep - you guessed it. It's the recliner. This chair is where I have fed all my babies, and my newest little baby loves to eat. She is really into eating. She would prefer to do it much of the day (and night, but that's a story for another post). And, being that she is the fifth child, I let her do pretty much whatever she wants (this does not bode well for the future). With my first two children, I was quite rigid with a feeding schedule (though it flew in the face of medical advice). It worked well for us, and my babies seemed to thrive despite my militaristic regimen. My third child was on a hospital-appointed feeding schedule, so I didn't have a choice in his situation. By the time my fourth child was born, if he cried, I nursed him. I didn't have time to try xyz to see what he needed. If he fussed, and a certain part of mine would make him happy, then that's what he got. Which brings us to my dear daughter. Like I said, she loves to nurse. And since there is much going here much of the time, she gets her way. Heaven help me if this causes psychological problems later (i.e. food solves all life's problems, etc.). Hey - I'm keeping my head above water here, people.
So - as I was saying - the recliner. Chances are, if you call me or visit, I will be in the recliner. The other day, I had some difficulty getting up and I swear it was because the chair didn't want to let me go. We have really bonded, the chair and I. When I wean my daughter, I think we will both grieve a little.