I'm ready for the hubs to come home now. I've lost track of all time. Even the
little things are out of whack. Night and day seem to have melted like some
freaky twilight. I have served strange meals, at strange times, to children who
don't seem to know that two o'clock in the morning is the WRONG time to be
awake. We are clearly not right. "Silly fool," you say? "Just keep putting them
back in bed, as many times as it takes." Sounds great. But we're resigned
co-sleepers from way back. We start the kids off each evening in their own beds,
but the 3 am migration and subsequent family bonding has me stiff and sore each
morning. Oh, sure. You'll hear me testifying on the beauty of a king sized
mattress, glory hallelujah! I pontificate on the benefits of extended
breastfeeding, of baby-wearing and most things AP. However, I spent the wee
hours of the morning in the company of a 20 month old child who had places to
go, people to see and very specific things she wanted to watch on TV, "Now.
NOW!" and I'm exhausted. It dawned on me that my youngest hasn't nursed in a few
days. I think we're done. It was a non-event, like so many of the milestones
I've crossed with this last baby of mine. Suddenly, she's got a mouth full of
teeth, an opinion on everything and the beginnings of the vocabulary to get it
all said. She just hasn't asked to nurse, and I just haven't offered. I had big
plans for the final nursing. The bittersweet pangs, the last time seeing my
child at my breast, with her pudgy hand resting in my cleavage. I thought I'd
utter something profound, to mark the occasion, perhaps a sentimental verse. I
planned to have a bonfire with my well-worn nursing bras. I'm actually relieved
to have missed the moment. Sentimental moments tend to feel contrived. I shed a
few tears writing this, but there is pride in completion, too. I actually had a
child self-wean. Woooo! Score one for my crunchy alter-ego. 121 weeks pregnant.
53 months nursing. A child entering kindergarten, one entering preschool (if I
can get him to stop crapping his pants) and one now weaned. When you bust all
the numbers out, it's pretty impressive. These little statistics are thriving,
and I'm so scattered that I need to blog it as it happens to keep it straight. I
am SO going to celebrate this rest-stop in my mothering road trip. Its all good.