My daughter is trying to establish her independence. She wants to feed herself. She’s trying to use a sippy cup. She’s even crawling!

She wants to help with breastfeeding, too. That would be fine if her idea of “helping” didn’t involve a Kung Fu grip on my boobs. Or grabbing and twisting my nip-nips to get the milk out faster. (Holy hell does it hurt! And she thinks it’s hilarious.) Or diving at my chest and latching on wherever her face ends up. Or wanting to sit up and turn toward the TV — without unlatching — so she can watch “Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood” while nursing. (We ❤️ PBS, BTW.)

I knew breastfeeding would get more complicated as she grew, but this is ridiculous.

I love the feeling of her nuzzling into my breast, and her looking at me lovingly while she nurses. The connection we share in those moments is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

What I don’t love is how she whips off every few seconds to point and squeal at the cat.

Experts say that for babies with FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), nursing in a quiet, dark place is best. So I tried breastfeeding Baby Bird in my bedroom closet.

She turned my boob every which way but loose so she could admire the shelves of shoes.

To be fair, I love a cute shoe, too.

We’re now trying a version of saddle breastfeeding. Unfortunately, she buries her face into my breast like she’s trying to smother herself, so I’m not sure how long I’ll stick with that position.

We’re not giving up on breastfeeding. We’ve come too far to do that. We survived a bad latch, low milk, cracked nipples, thrush, and mastitis. We will not surrender.

But I’m not sure how much more abuse my boobs can take. After all, they’ll only stretch so far.