I remember explicitly, my thought
process. It was nine months ago - that day in March - when my extremely-large-almost-ten-pound-man-infant
latched perfectly at ten minutes of age…”How am I going to ever wean this one?”
It’s an interesting phenomenon. At first the mother thinks, “I can’t possibly
nurse this baby all day! I need to be doing other things! I can’t hold you all
day! All I want is my body back!”
THEN…in a few short months, when
that same baby can’t be cajoled onto the breast despite her best efforts, the
same mother thinks, “I’m not ready to be finished with this. You still need me.
You’re still a baby. I still NEED you to need ME.” (Abject despair. Muffled
cries).) What a juxtaposition, right? Forgive me. I just weaned my last baby.
CORRECTION: I just weaned my last baby, except it was entirely his own idea.
CORRECTION: My last baby just weaned himself.
CORRECTION: My last baby just weaned himself without my consent.
CLARFICATION: I am rendered useless. Inert. Done.
I was warned, you see. I was
warned that the second child may not nurse to the magic twelve month mark – AKA
the age that laughs in the face of all
potential ear infections. I was warned that the second child has so many
more distractions than the first. Namely due to the fact that the mother no
longer has the luxury of sitting on the couch while watching BRAVO and nursing
for countless, consecutive, uninterrupted hours because the mother now has a
toddler to keep from their untimely, yet ever imminent death.
Essentially, this milestone
is just the first of many whereupon my child separates himself from me. Do I
want him to rely upon me forever? No, of course not. Was I prepared for my baby
(because that’s what he’ll always be) to start the severing process so soon?
No, of course not. Is this the face of a child ready to be a big boy? Oh my,
yes it is.
