I never thought I’d be one those women. I never thought I’d be someone who would nurse my children indefinitely.
I thought, at best, I would nurse my boys until they were 6 months. If I was lucky. If I was lucky enough to have babies who made it easy for me. Babies who took to breastfeeding easily. Not like the sad stories I read on all those website when I was pregnant and scared witless. Not like those women who virtually cried on-screen describing how, no matter what they tried, their babies wouldn’t latch on. Or they couldn’t produce enough milk. Or it was too painful. Or they hated it.
Well, my babies latched on right away. From day one, literally. And they made it easy. It took a little while to gain my footing but I did. And I never looked back.
The boys are almost 17 months old now. I’ve nursed them all this time. Granted, it’s only once a day at this point – before bed – but that’s all they really want.
Somehow, for many reasons and none at all, it seems like it’s time to quit. The reasons that I can articulate in my mind are not worth sharing here. They’re banal and trite. So are the reasons for NOT quitting, actually. I guess it’s just a feeling. It’s just a feeling that the Mama who breastfed her little babies has to move on like they’ve moved on. They’re walking, almost talking and it just seems like we’re moving into a whole other ballgame.
Soon enough, we’ll start looking at pre-schools. We’ll be looking at weaning them from full days at home. Like I said, it’s a whole other ballgame.
I’m melancholy about it. I’m not entirely happy to move on… but that’s me, not them. I’ve had this purpose for the last 16 months. A purpose that was easily defined and could only be fulfilled by me. I’m sad to let that go. Such a clear and definite purpose in life is not easy to find.
I guess it’s a good thing I’m too busy to think about it too much.
