The Last of the Nurse-hicans

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.