Mavs Parade: Wish I Could Be There (Sort of, Not Really)

I've jumped on the bandwagon. Yes, I'm a fan of the Dallas Mavericks like never before.

My boy and I at a game circa 2008

I'm not usually a huge sports fan. But I found myself glued to the television Sunday night cheering for my home team.  There was something about the way they were playing, as if their desire to win was without question. They wanted it more. So I was ecstatic when they whipped up on the Miami Heat to go ahead and win the 2011 NBA Championship.

On Monday, the kids and I munched on our lunch as we watched die-hard Mavs fans welcome them back home at Dallas' Love Field Airport. I love watching live television news unfold as historical events happen. There's always so much energy. You could see the reporters trying to stay composed as they screamed into their mics, hoping their voices were louder than the crowds. People were sweating profusely, some getting really weak in the near triple-digit temps outside. Choppers were flying above showing every move of the Mavs as they touched their beloved fans through a wire fence.  Back at the television studios (I was flipping back and forth between WFAA 8 and FOX 4) there was talk of a victory parade coming up possibly by the end of the week.

That's when I knew I had to go to the parade.

Lessons Learned

If you know me, you know I'm passionate about breastfeeding. This is my first post for the "Carnival of Breastfeeding Readers" where I've joined other women bloggers in sharing our experiences as nursing mothers. I learned about this from one of my favorite blogs, Blacktating. The June theme is "The Second Time Around". Links to posts from more bloggers are at the end of this post.  Happy reading!

I have two wonderful children. My oldest who is now three, was nursed for eight months. His 14-month-old sister is still nursing with no clear end in sight.  The breastfeeding experiences of the pair couldn’t be anymore different, except that I was determined to breastfeed both.

I remember the first time I held my son, James Charles. I remember the warmth of his 19 1/2 inch body in my arms moments before he was whisked away to be weighed and inspected. I’d planned to put him to my breast right after his birth, but I’d forgotten to take my shirt off during the intensity of my labor.