Eight weeks of boobs

Squeaky is eight weeks and two days old today, and in all that time she's only ever eaten breast milk - my breast milk. She's packing on the pounds, too - up three whole pounds from birth. I don't know why this boggles my mind, but the fact that my body can sustain a whole other being - and that that being can thrive at my breast just... just... blows my mind.

Most natural thing in the world, all mammals do it, blah blah blah. Whatever. I'm nourishing a human being, here!

And of those approximately 580 feedings, about 574 of them have been at my breast. (The other 6 have been varying degrees of successful bottle feedings of expressed milk).

It's getting easier. I don't have to curl my toes as much when she first latches on. If my boobs are particularly full or particularly empty, it hurts more, but my milk supply is regulating itself to Squeaky's seven-hour sleeps overnight and her frantic cluster-feeding every evening (though that too is leveling out).

Hmm, now that I think about, it's coming up on one year since my body began sustaining her completely. Can I celebrate her one-year 'date of conception' anniversary, or would that just be weird?

But back to breast milk. I'm fascinated by the biology of it, and the amazing feeling of having Squeaky grow and thrive and learn to laugh and smile and try to crawl... all powered by milk from my own body. That's cool stuff.