Maybe I should just pre-pay for Evan's therapy now

I finally made good on my plan to start the "don't offer, don't refuse" approach to daytime nursing yesterday and as predicted, the little bugger didn't even seem to notice. He happily drank his soy milk from a straw cup and even I had to admit that he's (almost) just as cute with soy milk dribbling down his chin as he is when the milk on his chin came from me.

So it's all fine and dandy and relaxed and loving, this weaning stuff, except for one small problem. MY BOOBS ARE KILLING ME. I'm unclear why dropping one nursing session has had such a dramatic effect, but I look as obscenely engorged as I did in the early days of nursing (an E cup chest on a size 6 frame is a bit much, even my husband must admit) and I hurt. A lot. So much so, in fact, that I have caught myself quite a few times in the past 24 hours rubbing a few particularly painful spots to try to work out the knots that I imagine must be forming there. In other words, I'm feeling myself up. All day long. I don't think I've actually done it in public yet, but I'm sure that given enough time, I'm bound to cop a feel in some terribly conspicuous place.

I have officially become the punchline of a very bad joke about how men would behave if they had breasts. And if the Julia letter hooks on his wall aren't enough to send my son into therapy some day, reading about how his mother felt herself up all day long when he was a baby should do the trick quite nicely, thank you.