I had the chance to wean Noah and I passed on it with a pensive eye and a full-body sigh, the way a pregnant woman passes up a glass of Cabernet, hesitantly, knowingly doing the ultimate right thing but not without sacrifice.
Or was it the right thing?
A few weeks ago when we were returning from a wedding in New Jersey that left much to be desired in the way of etiquette (the mother of the bride) and guest friendliness a series of unimportant events unfolded and it wasn't until bedtime that I stood there staring at Marc wishing he had that female ability to think and move at the same time and I said, "You know, I haven't nursed since 5am ... I could just, you know ... stop."
Because my husband is a man, the kind with a penis, he responded by saying, "It's up to you. Whatever."
And my ovaries came alive and spoke out loud saying, "But I need to discuss this first. Let's think about it. Don't do anything rash."
I didn't do it. I do need to think about it more. In defense of myself and it is my blog, so it's all in defense of ME around here, it isn't something that should be decided on the spur of the moment and it wasn't as if I had been away for a few days* giving my body a chance to turn that left over breast-milk into something useful, like saddlebags or ass-zits.
I tend to approach things in life one of two ways, 1) with absolute avoidance until the issue goes away or magnifies into a newer and larger problem, or 2) head-on, full-frontal attack with solutions, plans, alternative plans, discussions behind me and debriefing space available with materials prepared.
Noah was an exclusively breastfed baby. I didn't prepare much for nursing. I knew I would do it and it worked well for both of us from the start. Because I don't like confrontation, especially that from a tantrum-tending toddler who can break my heart with a scream, a cry or a wink of the eye. I don't want to bring any trauma into his life. His short little delicate life that right now is punctured with the rudeness of cutting molars, falling flat on his face mid-sidewalk because a leaf tripped him, or completely losing all human-resemblance when he lurches to the floor to wince in fake-out-pain, scooting across the wooden floor boards on his back, face-reddening, and emitting guttural screams when something, something doesn't go the way he anticipated.
I am with him all day long, just us, mom and boy, rattling around the house or playground or stalking the nearest Target and I don't know how to deprive him of something that soothes him so well, guarantees a two hour nap, returns him to sleep at 1am, 4am and sometimes 630am when mommy needs just five more minutes. I can only offer so many special big boy cookies, saying "no, they're empty, all gone". How do I tell him we're on permanent hiatus while managing the leakage, engorgement and clearly NOT EMPTY AND NOT GONE appearance of the bosom that has sustained him so long?
I sort of just feel like he's going to call me out on it and demand a return of the boobies.
I love our cuddles and closeness and I will miss that. I will probably even cry a little and I'm okay with that. I know that his infancy is coming to an abrupt end regardless of whether or not he stops nursing now, next month or next year. I know it is going to end, soon, hopefully, and I'm sad to see this time pass but I'm ready to move beyond it. So, emotionally adjusted am I, but the devil is in the details.
I hope you believe me when I say that I am just stuck on the logistics of this weaning thing. Noah never took to a bottle and he won't even drink milk. There are of course, some horror stories where kids get some superhuman separation anxiety post-weaning and this just, scares the living bejesus out of me. I have cornered Diana on every single occasion we have been together and demanded to know how she weaned LuLu who nursed more voraciously than Noah, the most prolific breast-sucker out there. I suspect poor Diana has mangled breasts to match her mangled withered old-lady vagina.
Noah will be 16-months old next week and I think by about 18-months I'd like to be well on the path to weaning, if not, weaned. I would also like for him to drink a damn sippie cup of milk and oh, I would also like a million dollars and Jennifer Aniston's hair while you are out there securing pipe dreams for me.
* I had hoped that BlogHer in July would be the perfect three day weekend away from Noah that would be the final nail in our nursing coffin, if you will, but it sold out the day before I went to buy a ticket. If you want to help out a poor wean-ready mom, sell me your ticket.
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