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Tonight, I put Will to bed without nursing him for the first time in (wait, let me check the Lilypie meter at the bottom of the page...) one year, two months, two weeks, and six days.
Over the past couple months, I'd weaned him down to just once a day. Just before bed. Just in the special time between the two of us, after his jammies are on and he's said goodnight to everyone else and we sit in his chair and sing his special song, the one I've been singing to him every night since I found out he was growing inside me, and talk about who loves him, just like we have every night since his little blue eyes first locked into mine, and snuggle close. And he would eat and stroke my arm, and I would just sit and love him.
I go to my annual GYN appointment on Friday, and my personal goal was to stop nursing him by then. But the theory was so much easier than the practice. Several times, I've sat in that rocker and nursed him and thought, "THIS will be the last night." And I'd hold him close and tell him how much I loved him and how glad I was that I'd been able to do this for him--for us. And I'd make a surface sort of peace with myself about stopping. Until the next night, when I'd feel torn and think, "No--I can't give it up! It's too special. He's not ready!"
But that wasn't about him, really. That was about me.
Will's not an infant any more. He's walking, at least when he feels like it. He's got words, and his vocabulary is growing on a daily basis. He looks so big to me these days. And he doesn't need to nurse any more.
Tonight, I had his bottle in the room with me. It was full, and he was ready for bed. So I thought, "Don't make a production of it, Jennifer. Just let LAST night be the last night. It's time to let it go."
So he didn't nurse. And he still went to sleep. No issues. No problems. He still stroked my hand with his little finger as he drank. We still sang his song. We still talked about who loves him, no one more than Mommy.
He'll be fine. It's me with the hole in my heart.
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