Weaning notes

All I can say is that sometimes I feel all zen with the decision to wean my baby boy. And then sometimes I feel like I’m trying to squeeze into a dress that’s too small. It just doesn’t feel right.

I question why. And then I remind my very sleep deprived psyche that it needs to catch a few Zzz’s. Like, pronto.

I wander into memories of lazy days before-babies. Rolling out of bed at noon on a Saturday morning. Ahhh, stretch. Roll shoulders back. My husband would say, in his impossibly gorgeous morning voice, “Heyyyy baby, wanna get breakfast?”. We’d finally stroll over to the diner for a super size spinach and feta omelet with a side of salty hashbrowns. Oh, save me. Sometimes I’d even pass on coffee. Can you imagine??? By the time we’d get home it’d be 3pm.

Ha!

Anyway, on one side of the breast pad, it feels like the right time to wean D-Boy…. for A NAP. But really, he’s blossoming into the kinda guy that knows what he wants, which makes me puff with praise, BUT I have a feeling that if I continue breastfeeding him, I’m going to have battles over my very own skin. 

I’m the adult here. I have good instinct, if I may say so myself, and lately I’ve been getting this victorious feeling about the whole Mama’s milk thing. I’m high in the air – feet off the ground, arms up, with a basket ball in my hand, ready to slam dunk… and YESSSSSSSSSs!!! I did it! Me!!!??!!

When I look back on all that I encountered, I am in awe of myself. Seriously. Breastfeeding wasn’t a cake walk for me. Though the sweet goodness that came from giving sustenance to my babies dulled any hardships I met along the way. The warm rush of closeness, the tranquility, the soul-to-soul connection, the bliss… that is what we experienced. 

I nursed D-Boy for 17 months. And I nursed his sweet big sister the same amount of time. I did the math the other night. It’s wild to know I’ve breastfed children for 34 months of my life.

But I digress.

It’s kind of like walking away from great success at its peak – as opposed to leaving afterwards. There’s something about closing a chapter on a high note that makes everyone involved feel good.

I’m not weaning because I don’t want to breastfeed him anymore, but (primarily) because my sleep bank has a deficit that I can’t even fix with a caffeine bail out. I’m so freaking tired that I’m leaving fresh cold milk containers in the sippy-cup cupboard. Great. There’s 4 bucks down the drain. I’m so damn tired that I can’t stay awake to read, paint, make jewelry or kiss my husband. Which sucks, and not the good kind. I’m just dusted and disgusted. And I need a shower. But I’m too tired. So forget it. I’ll just jump in the bubble bath with Girl-E and D-Boy next time and get the important parts done.

Ay-yay-yay. 

What does sleep have to do with breasfeeding my 17 month old baby boy? The thing is, we moonlight. Anytime after midnight has become fair game. And he’s like a moth to a flame. I have all kinds of excuses reasons why my toddler baby is up all night, but I’ll spare us all from that unusually long list. The facts are: I want to hang out with my husband who gets home around 8pm. Then we have dinner around 9pm. Then we crash at about 11pm. Then D-Boy usually wakes around 1am’ish, then again at 4am, and then he’s up for the day.

And I’m not the kinda girl who can sleep with my titty in a mouth.  Nope. So up, I am. (Insert coffee)

On the flip side of this breast pad,  I’m sad about weaning. I get a serving of lump-throat with a side of salty tears when he signs “babyfood” now. There’s something so wrong about avoiding his request, when all along I’ve watched for his cue. I wonder if he feels tricked? Betrayed? Sometimes he goes with it and moves on. BUT he totally gives me the “side eye” like he knows I’m up to somethin’. Busted. Other times, he’s like, “Hello?! Let me sit on your lap… and get me some lovin’, Mama!”. Not literally, but you know. THAT LOOK.

It seems the only way to wean him is to change the type of affection I’m giving him. Keep his back to my chest, no lap-sitting, chest-to-chest holding. TRIGGER. Now it’s the “walk and hold”, no “sit and cuddle” on the love seat. Oh, not the love seat. TRIGGER. Bathe with a sports bra on, lest he spies his beloveds. TRIGGER.  Yes, I bathe with my children. If it creeps you out, then move on.  Piggy back rides, rolling on the floor, sitting with a pillow between us. It’s like putting an ocean between us compared to how we normally roll. It’s heart wrenching, really. But, I think I can resume the TRIGGER stuff  again at some point. Right? I hope I can.  

I just don’t want this to end. It’s so sad. I’m going to miss the way we stare into each other’s eyes. The way he plays with my hair, twirling it into a knot. The way with fiddle our fingers. The way he twists my pearl earrings. The way he plays with his toes. The way we are when we do what we do. I just ache over this.

But, I do think it’s time. I do.

I think.