Yesterday was (in theory, if I can hold strong) the last day I will nurse Maeve. And as ready as I am to have myself to myself, if I think about it for more than a second I find a catch in my throat and my eyes begin to water. Let's just hope that's hormones settling and not a long-lasting effect. I love watching Maeve grow into this sweet, smart little girl. Our talkative toddler who loves to run and climb, loves doggies and trees and books: but man oh man how I mourn the loss of her babyhood with each same step.
Ironic, isn't it?
We made it nearly sixteen months nursing, and considering what an awful start she and I had with it and the struggle it took to make it work I am proud that we got this far. My goal was to make it a year and then we'd see. When a year came and went at the end of September it just didn't feel time yet and we kept going; slowly shifting to just nursing in the mornings. As most mamas can tell you though, morning nursings seem to be the sweetest, quietest, most perfect of moments with your babe. My normally busy bee lays still and quiet, strokes my cheek and twirls my hair. *sigh* Afterwards it's a jump and a hop and a million babbling words and laughter and the stillness of the day evaporates.
I knew it was time to wean when my anxiety began to peak again (I can't take my medication while nursing/pregnant), and knowing I had hit a plateau at baby-weight loss for several months now I decided we would wean soon. That was almost two months ago. I've set several "this is it" goals, but when the morning came I just couldn't make myself do it. Yesterday,(yet another goal) felt different. I savored our morning and talked to Maeve about how this was our last time to nurse. More for me that for her really. I tried to study her face, her fiery curly tickling my skin, her tiny fingers curling my hair round and round and her smiles peaking round at me when we would lock eyes. And then came today: today was hard. Hard to say "No, thank you. All done nursing, would you like a cuppie of milk?" Hard to lose that morning snuggle, the only stillness of the day. Hard to recognize she's a toddler now, and not my little baby. When did that happen? How do you witness and marvel at all these changes taking place and still become winded at the realization that time has passed and things will never be like they once were. That there is no freezing in time and clinging to a moment, only pictures and memory.
I keep thinking of a piece of advice a friend wrote me when we were pregnant with Maeve. A mother of three girls, the older two teenagers now, she wrote, "Never let yourself become irritated with night feedings, the strange hours, having to put them in your bed. At 3am remember, this will only last a year or two, and then it's gone. There will come a day they can do it on their own, they won't want to climb in your bed, and they'll want their space. At 3am, try and enjoy it, try to remember this is fleeting." And I did, I tried to remember at 3am, "this beautiful creature is mine to love!" and I tried to study her features and memorize every feeling. It didn't always work, and many nights I was mad to see 3am again, but I feel like I mostly remember the beauty and love behind 3am. That's how I want to try and enter every stage of parenthood, and marriage in my life. To memorize how everyone looks, and feels and the love and pride in the room and remembering in those inconvenient moments, "it won't always be like this."
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