Goodnight.

For the first time in two years, my body is my own. 

Since July 2014, I have either been pregnant or breast feeding and though I have been able to make use of my body, it always belonged to Silas. He needed it to grow and develop and ensuring those things was my priority.

A photo posted by Kimberly (@healthystrides) on Aug 8, 2015 at 6:07am PDT

But on Monday night, I nursed Si for the last time.

I have mentally been ready to be finished breast feeding for quite some time as I had hoped to have him fully weaned by a year. However, his apathy toward bottles and sippy cups made it a challenge, and I didn't want to quit when I was not certain that he would be willing and able to get his nutrients elsewhere. 

The discovery of a Nuby cup with a 360 straw was a game changer, and Si has become more and more proficient in drinking from it. About six weeks ago, I was able to drop down to just nursing at night, middle of the night and morning and a month ago, I dropped the morning session.

Since then, I have noticed my supply drop but wasn't worried. I knew my body could possibly maintain it for months. And, anyway, I was going to be done at 15 months. I just needed to be.

It had been OK for that month, and I even started to cherish those moments with Si in the Ikea Poang chair when he was quiet and calm. I knew they were numbered and the ease of getting him to sleep would soon be replaced with a possible battle. 

However, the nurse-rock-bed routine that had been so dependable crashed to a halt on Monday. I put Si down and he screamed. I mean SCREAMED. I could tell, physically, that I had no more to give him or with which to comfort him. It was a shock. It took me a moment to figure out what to do – which was grab his cup and cuddle with him in the chair as he gulped and gulped the cow's milk. Clearly, our nursing session had not given him what he needed. When he was done, he pushed it away and snuggled in. I held him for a short time before laying him down, where he rolled over and went fast asleep.

Even still, I wasn't so sure that would be the end of breastfeeding. I thought I'd give it to the weekend, when the boys are going to Camp Nana overnight.It would give me, us, time to prepare for the end. But as we read had bath and read books on Tuesday, I couldn't bear the thought of another night of struggle.

So without fanfare or an official goodbye, I decided that we were officially done. I cuddled him as I gave him his cup and prayed that he would be OK. Because even though I was mentally and now physically finished, I didn't know that Si would be. I didn't want to take something away from him. 

He nuzzled his head into the crook of my arm, his left arm around my back, and sipped from his Nuby. When he was finished, he pushed it away and relaxed his body into a cradle position. His eyes fluttered closed and fell into slumber. I laid him down in his crib, where he slept until the next morning.

Running, Racing and Breastfeeding {Part 2}

This fall, I navigated a curious and sometimes tricky path of trying to run, race and feed Silas. While I have been successful on many levels, I've also faced my fair share of challenges. As such, I thought I would share my personal experiences for anyone who might find it helpful.

This post, Part 2, will address how I handled breastfeeding, pumping and racing. Part 1 focused on my general observations about breastfeeding and running.

I participated in three distance events in September and October – the Fort4Fitness Double Play (10K at 7:30 a.m., 4-mile at 10:30 a.m.), Muncie Mini-Marathon and the Bourbon Chase. Each presented its own fun set of logistics to keep Si fed. 

Note: As I don't have a lot of confidence in my supply and Si was still eating fairly frequently, I might have worried more than I should have. 

Fort4Fitness. This race, being in Fort Wayne and close to home, was probably the easiest. Si was still sleeping decently at this point, and I nursed him around 4 a.m. I woke up around 5:45 a.m., got ready and pumped as much as I could before leaving at 6:30. I left the bottle in the fridge for Mark in the event that Si would actually accept it.

Alas, he didn't.

Mark met me at Parkview Field, the finish and staging area for the race, after I finished the 10K. I fed Si twice between races – immediately after reuniting and right before the 4-mile. He was sleeping when I finished the 4-mile so we booked it out of there to get breakfast at a local restaurant, where I fed him again.

Muncie-Mini Marathon. I was stupid. So, so stupid. We traveled to Muncie the night before the race, and I made sure to pack my pump, pump parts and bottles. The one thing I didn't pack was a backup stash of milk.

Actually, that's not where my mistake lied. It was that I never called the hotel to learn whether mini fridges were available in the rooms so that I could bring extra expressed milk in the event of an emergency. You know, like a race delay because of inclement weather ...

As such, race morning proved a bit stressful for me. I nursed Si per usual when we woke up and then I pumped immediately. I went to pick up my packet at the race start right when it opened and then returned to the hotel. I pumped again. I drank water, ate, and alternated between keeping Si on the boob and pumping. I wanted to have him and the bottle as full as possible before I left. Unfortunately, I only eked out about 4 ounces.

I was doing lots of math when I arrived at the start. If I run the half in 2:10 and Si sleeps for 45 minutes, he'll eat at 4 ounces at this time and be ready for long division by noon. If I ran the half in 2:15 and Si slept for 90 minutes, Mark would eat two donuts with 57 sprinkles at a cost of $1.67.

When the race got delayed a half hour because of torrential rain and lightning, I was worried. Not just about what the conditions on the course would be like but what the condition of the boys would be like when I got finished. I offered to run the 10K but Mark insisted they would be fine.

And they were.

Si had his bottle and had a nap. He was happy albeit ready for his next feeding.

The Bourbon Chase. The race might have taken 31 hours but I was away from home, from Si, for 72 hours. Figuring that Si was eating every three to four hours, that's 24 bottles I needed to produce while I was gone. Eight or 10 of those would be pumped in the back of a van.

Sounds like fun, right?

Let me assure you, it wasn't. But I had a plan. Pump every two to three hours during the day and get all the rest I could.

Here's how it went:

Even though Si does not sleep through the night, I made the decision to not set an alarm to pump. My sister-in-law who travels for work said she never got up in the middle of the night and to take advantage of a night's sleep. Given the circumstances of the race, I deemed it prudent. I got to sleep the first and third nights, the second night was in the van.

The mornings after a good rest, I woke up like Dolly Parton's ginger cousin. I pumped immediately for 20 minutes and then again, if possible, an hour and a half later for 15 minutes.

Our van had a power adapter in the back row, and it allowed me to pump discretely whenever I wanted. I tried to hook up every two to three hours and never more than 3.5. If I went longer than two or so, I tried to pump for 17 to 20 minutes. Even if I didn't express a lot, I wanted the stimulation.

Gah! Did I really just write that?

And so how did I store it?

The milk I pumped before the race was kept in the fridge at my captain's house. Easy peasy. On the road, milk was stored in Lansinoh bags in 5-ounce increments and stored in a small cooler in the van. The cooler had ice packs and ice so that the milk was always cool. After Van 1 runners finished their first legs, we checked into a hotel and I was able to keep my milk in the mini fridge. I had access to the room after my second leg, as well, so I was able to keep it stored there for a good eight hours. After that, it went back on ice then to a fridge again then back on ice.

It wasn't the best situation but it worked. The milk stayed at a relatively consistent temperature and, for the most part, I wasn't toting around 100 ounces (or whatever I pumped) from distillery to distillery.

Because that would be weird.

Any questions?

Running, Racing and Breastfeeding {Part 1}

Sitting in the back of the van, I began to nod off to the familiar hum of the Spectra.

Brr rrm. Brr rrp. Brr rrm. Brr rrp.

It had to be the sixth time that day that I had hooked myself up to the all-too-familiar flanges and plastic tubing. It was growing tedious but I tried to find some peace. This time would not be the last. Far from it, actually.

I was away for three days and three nights to participate in the Bourbon Chase. It was 72 hours of much needed time to be me. Just me. Not the wife, not the mother. It was me, the runner. It was me, the friend.

But as much as I wanted to separate myself, there was one part of my life in Fort Wayne that I could not leave behind.

Breastfeeding.

This fall, I navigated a curious and sometimes tricky path of trying to run, race and feed Silas. While I have been successful on many levels, I've also faced my fair share of challenges. As such, I thought I would share my personal experiences for anyone who might find it helpful.

This post, Part 1, will focus on my general observations about breastfeeding and running. Part 2 will address how I handled breastfeeding, pumping and racing.

Running <<>> Part 1

My face was red, my shirt was soaked with sweat. I had just finished a particularly grueling workout – 6.5 miles of a hill repeat and 400 combo – at the cemetery, and I was riding the endorphin high.

Until I went to the lactation room at work.

I needed to clean up and pump before starting my day. I did my thing with the Action Wipes and then hooked myself up. I'd typically express anywhere from 4 to 6 ounces total during the first pump of the day but a couple weeks prior, Si had been taking antibiotics for impetigo. His appetite had dropped, and I pumped more than usual. As such, I didn't know what to expect – 6 ounces, maybe 7. I'd love to get 8.

But what I got was 2. TWO ounces total.

I panicked and shot out a frantic message to my breast friend. She talked me down, told me to drink, drink, drink my water; stick to my regiment of fenugreek and blessed thistle; and maybe ease up on the running, at least for a little bit.

I could drink the water. I could stand the smell of maple syrup from the fenugreek. However, the thought of dropping back on running was not what I wanted to hear but I couldn't deny that it might be what I needed. Many women can run and maintain supply but I was starting think I wasn't one of them.

My supply rebounded that day after the message, and I got enough to feel OK. However, my impetigo days, where I expressed 19 ounces in one day, were over. I went from pumping 15 ounces, to 12 ounces and then to 10. The correlation seemed to be my venture into midweek runs of 6 miles and long runs in the double digits.

Can we say frustrating? I didn't want to have to pick between nursing Silas and running.

I didn't have a great go of it with Miles, and I was proud that things were better with Si. He is a boob man for sure, and he prefers to drink from the tap over a bottle, even going as far as to hold off until I am around. I love that I can offer him that nutrition and, maybe more importantly, comfort.

However, I couldn't help but feel a bit selfish. You give up a lot when you have a baby. Your body, sleep, sanity. Heck, at times, your marriage. Some days the only thing holding together the pieces of me were the laces of my Sauconys and the steps I ran that day. I needed to run just as much as Si needed to nurse. Maybe more.

But for all the tug and pull, I'm thankful it didn't come down to a him or me decision. I got determined and worked to improve my supply, even if it was just an ounce or two a day. I pumped after Si went down for the night and just before he got up in the morning. I added a nursing session at daycare and pumped immediately after. I chugged water. And I set my sights on 6 months. Six months and he'd have solids. We would be fine if we could make it to then. I could keep up.

And I did.

Keeping up, though, is a bit deceiving. I am able to do it not just from improving my supply and adding solids but Si's schedule. He usually drinks one, maybe two, bottles at daycare – each 5 ounces or so. Other babies tend to take more but they are also babies who sleep during the night. Si? Well, he wakes frequently during the night, sometimes, three to four times. Basically, he's drinking what he should during the day at night and getting a little something to whet his palate during the day.

Fun, right?

On the weekends, when I'm strictly nursing, I don't take note of my supply. It's just not easy to quantify the way it is with pumping. Also, I don't track how often he nurses on the weekends. I just don't feel compelled to do that at this point. And, call me lazy, but if Si's fussy and it's been at least 90 minutes since he's nursed, I just throw him on the boob. Sometimes he eats, sometimes he doesn't.

I am certain that he probably nurses more frequently than other babies his age. On Saturdays, when I run long, it is more pronounced. In part, because he sometimes fusses with the bottle. It's also because I don't "fill up" well on the run. I often feel floppy for a few hours and have to force the water down and make sure I get enough calories to give my body what it needs for milk production.

But it's worth it. He gets what he needs, and I get what I need.

Splish, Splash {Muncie Mini Marathon Recap}

"The race has been delayed a half-hour. I can just do the 10K if you want."

I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Muncie Fieldhouse and watched the rain come down in sheets as I talked to Mark.

The rain, it made me nervous. In a pre-race meeting, the race director gave us an overview of the course and warned that some of it could be underwater. More of it would be wet. He advised that we don't look at our watches and just have fun.

Fun, running 13.1 miles in the rain – and I mean rain. R-A-I-N. Interesting.

Silas, he made me nervous, too. I had fed him as much as I could that morning, and I had pumped what I could. A whopping 3.5 ounces. It would tie him over but that would be it.

"Don't worry about us," Mark said. "Run your half marathon."

I handed the phone back to the volunteer from whom I had borrowed it. I couldn't decide if I was relieved or disappointed with his response.

It was 9:20 when the race director finally coerced us out to the start line. The rain had slowed from the monsoon-like storm but it was still steady. It was cool enough, perfect on any other day, that I didn't want to just stand there. I didn't want to begin visualizing what awaited me. I wanted to go. And from the conversations I heard around me, I don't think I was the only one.

But, soon enough, we were off.

The course headed east on the Cardinal Greenway, through the John Craddock Wetland Nature Preserve and through McCulloch Park.

My goal for this early section of the was not to get caught up in the excitement of the race; to avoid letting those running a shorter distance push me (there was also a 5K and 10K); and walk 1 minute at each water stop.

I had told Mark that I anticipated that I would finish between 2:05 and 2:10 but thought I'd be closer to 2:10, with an average pace around 10 minutes. A good day would mean a pace of 9:59 or faster.

And so it was with a bit of anxiety that I saw the first mile beep in at 9:40. Too fast, too soon.

I tried to rein it in the second mile, a task made easier by the terrain in the wetland. It was indeed wet but there wasn't much standing water. The trail, though, was a mix of wood bridges (slick) and a crushed limestone or sand, which offered additional resistance. I also walked 30 seconds through the first water stop.

But still I clocked a 9:49 mile.

The rain continued as we made our way to McCulloch Park and, at this point, I was soaked to the point that it didn't matter. I was just grateful I had on my Nuun Energy trucker hat to keep the water out of my eyes and compression shorts that weren't causing any chafing.

If you had asked me just an hour earlier, I would have emphatically told you that I would be miserable running a half marathon in these conditions – especially as I wasn't 100 percent confident I was well-trained for the event and I am 5 months post-partum.

Yet, I wasn't hating running. I was actually kind of loving it.

I felt strong. I felt smooth. And I was passing people in an almost strategic fashion. Before I went ahead, I would mentally note if it was me being competitive or whether I was running my race. I wanted to do the half my way. I also took my walk breaks as I promised myself and drank two cups of water at each aid station.

Miles 3-6: 9:34, 9:56 (walked one minute at aid station), 9:37, 9:49

I was excited when the course took a turn through Minnestrista, and I had a chance to look at the lovely Ball Estate. I had visited 2.5 years ago, meeting my brother, sister-in-law and grandma for a day. I have good memories of the trip and I tried to remember what the area looked like on that bright spring day for, on this day, the rain was still falling.

From there, the course took runners on a long out and back on the White River Greenway. It's a section that might have been quite tedious but there were some small hills to keep things interesting. They weren't anything to make you curse but enough to slow you down. I was happy, though, to feel steady as I climbed. It made me feel like the hill work I have been doing is paying off.

My one real frustration was that the course was coming up short on my watch. It was a consistent 0.2 for a while and then three-tenths. I felt like I was doing great work and yet, in a way, it wasn't going to "count." I wanted it to count. I needed it to count.

Miles 7-10: 9:30, 9:43, 9:33, 9:24

Pre-race, my hope was that during the final miles, if I had taken the first 10 as easy as I should have and walked as prescribed, that I could hammer it home.

But ... yeah. I hadn't done that. I could feel my legs grow tired, and I was getting antsy. I wanted to be done. I wanted to see my boys (and see how they had done). I wanted to go to the children's museum.

I bargained with myself that I would stay steady and make the last mile fastest. I could do that. I know how to finish strong.

And that's just what I did.

I wish I had a photo from the finish because I was kicking. K-I-C-K-I-N-G. My Strava stats report that I was down to a 7:23 pace in the final stretch and had been in the 7's for at least two-tenths of a mile.

Let me tell you – it felt good. It felt good to finish strong. It felt good to cross a finish line when I had been so ready to quit a couple hours earlier.

It felt good to surprise myself.

My final splits, according to my Soleus, were 9:38, 9:48, 8:48 with a total mileage of 12.8. My time is different from the watch and official clock by more than a minute so I'm taking the race clock (longer) and giving myself credit for 13.1.

The time – 2:04:27. Average pace – 9:30.

A couple of notes:

• The start delay really messed with my eating. I could feel my stomach grumble as the National Anthem was sung, and I knew it wasn't a good sign. Thankfully, I had brought an extra gel and took it 15 minutes before the start.

• There were fewer water stops than the initial race notes had indicated. I didn't notice it on the follow-up email and was a bit disappointed at mile 5. As wet as it was, I was rather dry. I needed some water ... and I needed a gel. I ended up waiting until mile 6.

• I had a popsicle. I did, I did. I rejected the first offering around mile 7 but at mile 10, it sound amazing. I ate about a quarter with my second gel before going on my way.

• I was off my predicted finish time enough that the boys missed me coming through the chute. I guess I wasn't the only one surprised by my time!

Keeping it real: Bottles up

This post has nothing to do with running, healthy eating or weight loss. We will return to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

I had rehearsed my answer for days. Over and over again in my head I said the word "no" but all the preparation in the world could not take away the shame I felt when it came "show" time.

At Miles' 6-month well-child appointment, I had to tell the doctor that I was no longer breast feeding.

I tried to place no expectations on myself or Miles when I made the decision to breast feed. I would tell those close to me that if it worked, it worked. If it didn't, it didn't.

Early on, it was clear that though breast feeding might have been "working," Miles and I weren't working well together. He was nursing every hour to 90 minutes during the day, with maybe 2 hours between feedings at night. It was nothing like the every 2 to 3 hours I had read about when I was pregnant. I was exhausted and discouraged, feeling like I could do nothing more than sit on the couch with my top off.

I reached out to the La Leche League and lactation nurses at the hospital where I delivered for help, almost wishing that they would tell me that it would be OK to stop. Instead, I was told everything was OK because Miles was gaining weight. He just might need to eat more because he started out so small.

Days and then weeks passed, and we were still eating at least every 90 minutes. I tried to stay strong, continually assured by lactation nurses, and prayed that there would be a time when we just magically clicked. At Miles' six-week appointment, we still hadn't gotten there. Our pediatrician, whom I adore, turned out to be the person who offered me some help. She told me to start supplementing with formula. I should try offer him a bottle of 2 ounces after he had nursed, three times a day.

I might have said I had no expectations for breast feeding when I was pregnant but I secretly hoped that I'd be a superwoman, nursing him to a year and managing to have a freezer full of milk. I felt like a failure, that my body should be able to provide for my son. I cried making that first bottle, with Miles screaming in my arms, but I had to do it. The well being of Miles and myself was not worth my pride.

Miles got about 6 ounces of formula a day when I was on leave from then on. When I went back to work, I was able to pump enough to keep him in breast milk at daycare but Mark gave him 4 ounces in the afternoon and we "topped" him off with 2 more before bed. About a month or so ago, I was no longer able to keep up and our daycare provider started a half breast milk-half formula regimen.

On the weekends, I tried to "power nurse" as the lactation consultants suggested but it did nothing to boost my supply. It didn't help that Miles became increasingly difficult to nurse. I'm not sure whether it was a growing awareness and desire to observe or just a preference for the bottle but he was just not having it. I had such trouble in Florida that I spent a chunk of the trip in the guest room, by myself. The family thought I was "different" but I was just fighting for a way to get Miles to eat.

But you can only fight so much and so hard.

After a lot of discussion with Mark, soul searching, tears and reaching the 24-week mark, I decided that it was best for my family - the entire family - to wean Miles. I started skipping feedings, pumping less at work and then I stopped entirely on Saturday.

I currently look like I had a botched boob job but Miles seems no worse for the wear, gladly taking a bottle when it's offered. (Now, solids - that's another story.)

I wanted to share this because very few people will tell a mom that it's OK to stop breast feeding - or to not breast feed at all. I was made to feel like I just had to tough it out, that my feelings and well being didn't matter and that I had to do it. Period. But I do matter. And if I realize that, I will be a better mom.