So it's another new week. A new year. A new chance to blog about my boobs. Again. And if you feel that this is getting redundant, it's at least as normal as blogging about who has a crush on whom, or who's the latest hollywood celebrity scandal, or who is sleeping with a sheep.

The three seasons of Ballykissangel that the Boy gave me for Christmas have now been watched, some in the middle of the night pumping sessions that I've started to incorporate into our lives, the others with the rest of the family. It's been a challenge, the mid-night pumping. The boobs are grudgingly being convinced to give up more and more drops of milk. I'm still nowhere near to filling those little 4oz bottles, but half an ounce every 2.5 hours is feeling pretty damn good to me. Mostly. It's good, because little Robbie is now out-eating me. He was on formula again yesterday when the Boy and I went up to see him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that we had brought him more milk. Maybe it was something else. He came to us to be held and the first thing he did after opening his eyes and taking a good long look at his daddy was to throw up.

Every baby is different. Every mother is different. Every breastfeeding attempt is going to be different. If I can just keep supply up, if I can just make it last until Robbie comes home, it might turn out well this time. Maybe he'll latch on. I'd really like to make this work. Anything is possible.