Just like that, my son has stopped nursing. Rather, I stopped nursing him. I explained it in a kind of firm, empassioned mumble.
You are big, you eat so much food, even love cow milk, you are ready, my son, to stop nursing. You are so big.
And hearing it, I believed. Hearing it out loud, growing firmer as his bedtime came, I knew it all to be true. He did it, did so well getting to this point and even letting me hug him in between his cries.
And now, it is past any bedtime. I am absolved, hanging in the rafters of my daughter’s third floor room. I am restless while I should be asleep.
Her belly bare, sheets and legs twisted in the opening lines of some ballet movement. She fed him with a spoon tonight. What did I do? Videod. Relished the sweet sibling hood that makes it so three and one year old can understand each other fairly completely.
Will he remember me looking very poured out? Tired? Or a yelping disappointment stuck in the wheels of his only two teeth on the bottom days? May we always help him move from frustration to strength and joy. I say kindness, sweeping laughter is the adhesive to all these frames and concrete moments. I say I will recall his sweet tummy growing rounder, a little puppy, how two minutes of nursing would give him two empowered hours like a mythic booster shot. I will not recall the ever-engorgement, a fever, hurting nipple pulls or teeth marks, when he couldn’t get a clear shot due to my clothes. When his teeth coming in made him uncharacteristically harsh. I will remember my baby’s love. The simply beauty that I could provide exactly his need. Mother and child fit together perfectly.
And just like that, he will grow more rapidly. I will shift. Emotions. Hormones. The speed in which it takes to link my sugary lips to spot some extra skin spilling over my jeans. Just like that, I will gather new tricks up my sleeve to comfort and quell.