We're Weaning

Dear Mateo,

It's been three nights since we last nursed. Someday you may read this and not understand or remember what that means, but right now - it means everything. My sweet boy, my firstborn, my angel eyes...I cannot hear you ask to "nurse in bed," watch your little wheels turn as you  try to come up with a reason to nurse that is most likely to elicit my sympathy and cave my resolve (this resolve is all pretense, my love). I nurse your sister in secret, too pained by your cries of, "I want to nurse because you just nursed Annie" to throw it back in your face. You are a jealous, while loving, brother and dare not stoke that fire any more. I want nothing more than to draw your head to my breast, let your pawing hands find their comfort. So many times these past few days I have almost - almost - almost given in. Even now, writing this, I want to run upstairs and snuggle you close, feel you search out the comfort you've known every. day. of. your. life. What cruel mother am I to deny you this basic ritual of your existence? What is life without it?

"You've given him more than 3 years." "You've been so patient and gentle with him." They tell me these things and I have no response, there is nothing I can say that will make three years seem like not enough. No one can understand - I doubt even another mother who has been in this position can understand. The mother/child breastfeeding relationship is that specific that only you and I - right now - can understand. One day soon you will forget and then it will just be me left alone with the memories and the twinges of loss. When you were a baby I would half joke that I would just nurse you until I had another baby and then go straight into nursing them, so I would never be without a nursing child. What naivete, to think that another child could take your place. The bond you and I have shared through your precious nursing is not the bond that Annie and I share - lovely as that is. You and I are our own, she and I something separate. I have felt a hint of what lies on the other side of this grief - I cherish my nursing Annie a bit more now, I look at her with fresh eyes - my only true baby (oh, baby, I will never stop calling you that - you will always be my baby, as I remind you daily). I snuggle you closer, tighter than I did before. I am brutally aware of you growing up too quickly and am more resolved than ever to respect your innocence and good intentions, to love you fully. These are the good things, the things I should choose to focus on through my sadness. But oh, this sadness. My tears soak our pillow as I stroke your hair back from your forehead and watch your eyes blink slowly and then shut. I tell you I love you apologetically, intensely, begging you to accept those words in exchange for the milk I deny you. You push me away, telling me you don't want to snuggle, you "just want to nurse" and a few minutes later wrap your arms around my neck and whisper you love me, you love me "so much."

I knew it would not be easy, but I never thought it would be this hard. I listened to others talk of weaning their older nurslings, how nursing sessions would gradually decrease until one day you realized you couldn't remember when the last time was. "How beautiful and sad," I would think, wondering if I would remember when that day came. I remember - November 4th, bedtime. I should have known it would not end easily, or quietly. When you were born Linda, the midwife's assistant, told me that she believed how a birth progressed is symptomatic of that baby's character. Your birth was days long, slowly progressing, intense, never ending and powerful. You came on your own sweet time, eyes open. Is it any wonder, then, that your nursing relationship would be long, intense, and difficult to bring to an end? My heart says to give in to your sweet pleas, to let you be the one who ends it - but my mind says it's time. I can't say exactly why, but I feel I will be a better mother to you if it ends. My body will be more patient, less touched out. My heart will have more sympathy toward you. I wish it were not this way - but I am only human. I gave you so much, my love. I give you so much. My lap is yours, my arms are yours, my heart is yours. You are not a baby anymore, I tell you this and it is true. You are a little boy - soon you will be a big boy and one day you will be a man. Time passes and our relationship must evolve with it. I am so grateful for those 3 years, 1 month and 11 days that I gave you my body to grow yours, my heart to comfort yours. There was so much more to it than just milk. Thank you, my son, for teaching me to give. You made me a mother, three years ago and each day over again. I am mourning, but also hopeful - this is a new season for us. I'm sure you will lead me somewhere else I've never been.

All my love, always,
Mommy

A baby nursing at a mother's breast... is an undeniable affirmation of our rootedness in nature. ~David Suzuki



It is only in the act of nursing that a woman realizes her motherhood in visible and tangible fashion; it is a joy of every moment. ~Honoré de Balzac



Mothers ought to bring up and nurse their own children; for they bring them up with greater affection and with greater anxiety, as loving them from the heart, and so to speak, every inch of them. ~Plutarch

Breastfeeding is an unsentimental metaphor for how love works, in a way. You don't decide how much and how deeply to love — you respond to the beloved, and give with joy exactly as much as they want. ~Marni Jackson

Breastfeeding is a gift that lasts a lifetime. ~Author Unknown