I was lucky enough to not have trouble nursing either of my kids. They both took to it easily, few painful side effects (other than stretching my poor little Bs to Fs (seriously, Fs!)), and both boys thrived. When Pumpkin proved allergic to milk based formula when we attempted a bit of supplementation, I was bummed by the inconvenience, but wasn’t too worried since everything else was, um, flowing.
As we delayed introducing milk products for fear of Pumpkin’s reaction, I clung to nursing even as his first birthday came and went. The doctor assured me I needn’t feel guilted into nursing, there were other ways to provide my little dude with the nutrients he needed during this transition period. Easier said than done. I most definitely felt guilted into it when Pumpkin’s only other liquid was water. So I kept going, even if it was just twice a day. And honestly, I wasn’t ready to give it up. Our days are so busy, that it was nice to have that quiet time, to have those moments when Pumpkin needed me with a primal desire that no one else could fulfill. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t seem ready to give it up either.
Until he was. And I kept attempting to hold onto that pre-bedtime feeding. It was shorter and shorter every night. Friday night, we went out for dinner and decided that would be it. Our sitter put the baby down, obviously without a feeding, and I decided I would not try to nurse him again.
And the little guy hasn’t noticed. Part of me is overjoyed that weaning was so successful. The other part of me is a little insulted that he’s taken this step away from me so unceremoniously. But that’s what we do as mothers, isn’t it? We nurture them, provide for them and raise them to be independent and to take those steps without us.
So why does it feel so hard and a little sad?