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February 12, 2004
February 12th, 2004.
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Recounting the Beginning of the End.
Maybe that's inaccurate, the beginning of the end. It's so hard to pinpoint, when the end really started, such a gradual normal transition in many ways. And maybe it's not really an end, just a metamorphosis from one stage of childhood to the next.
I suppose I shouldn't beat around the bush, nothing will change if I avoid the big w-word. As hard for it is for me to say, as hard as it is for me to admit, as much as I don't want to believe it, Summer Lily is weaned. She doesn't nurse anymore. Those sweet milky moments are part of our history together, forever cherished by me, and hopefully not too soon forgotten by her. It doesn't seem so long ago in our past that she was that wonderfully instinct-driven, animal-like in so many ways, newborn with the latch of a piranha and stunning skills of a world-class boobie wrestler, as Paul and I would so affectionately joke. This short period was followed by seemingly infinite yet priceless milky grins; never-ending midnight nursing sessions; and the development of communication from the fisted lip-brush, to the chest-pat, to the "mama?!" shirt-tug, with a final evolution into requesting "mattens" by their honoured, toddler-given name. Looking back over our two-and-a-half years of lactation and nursing, there are so many pleasant memories and no negative experiences to speak of. Two-and-a-half years of nursing, in retrospect, feels like a warm dusty attic of treasured events, stored nostalgia, where captured emotions and moments hang in the air like listlessly drifting pieces of sparkling, iridescent dust.
Pausing for an afternoon nap with Summer Lily, I stop to wonder, to question my intentions behind this little missive. I shrink at the thought of being applauded for making it "so long", or for having "succeeded" where so many others have failed -- in the longevity of my nursing relationship. I don't believe in playing down to the lowest common denominator; comparing my nursing "achievements" against the lesser foil of those who don't nurse at all, or barely make it out of the starting gate for whatever reason. The fact that others choose not to nurse at all, or fail to (whether out of ignorance or sad lack of support) does not make my choice to nurse beyond a culturally-chosen, arbitrary cut-off date of 12 months of age, shine any brighter. To suggest so is an insult to all involved. Further, I don't want my darling daughter congratulated on becoming a "big girl", because in our family we do not view nursing as an infantile event, a part of a babyhood: the graduation to childhood, the big world of being a big girl, is not defined or related to nursing status. So why share at all? I don't expect, anticipate, want, desire, any reaction at all. No confetti or party-streamers, no tidings of shared mourning or sadness. I think though, that there is resolution and finality of creating this record.
I think I need the therapy of writing, the process of cleansing out my feelings on this matter of weaning (that's still hard to type, by the way...). Because deep down inside, or not so deep -- depending on my mood -- I'm still not so sure of this decision. And just in case I haven't mentioned it yet, it was a decision. It was my decision. I made the choice to wean my daughter, despite my passionate views on child-led weaning, and my self-promises of grimacing and grinning my way through the expected painful or perhaps excruciating experience of nursing while pregnant. And that's this inner formulation I must work out, this failure of mine to fulfill my self-promise. The realization that I have failed to meet my goal, and the burden is solely mine. I've spent weeks, agonizing at times, working through my philosophies on breastfeeding, pregnancy, and evolution, squishing it all together and trying to work my chubby pregnant self through a non-existent loophole, all whilst examining my daughter for signs of trauma from premature weaning. I recall that vile taste that would well up in my mouth during those last weeks of nursing, the way my nipples would invisibly recoil in horror at the suggestion of nursing, the totally unforgettable experience of "dry nursing"; and while to some this may seem a perfectly acceptable excuse or reason or justification for mama-led weaning, I am still left here feeling empty-handed, shrugging my shoulders, and searching for pride in admitting "I couldn't do it." What humiliation there is, in discovering you can't reach the bar you've set up for yourself.
But enough of this ridiculous dramatic drivel.
Let me tell you the beginning of the end, the story of our weaning.
I headed into pregnancy, prideful, certain, and optimistic that nursing was the most simple act of love and nourishment that came without thought or much effort these days; a normal part of our everyday routine that stretched as far into the future as I could see. As the first trimester passed, I basked in what surely must have been the most pleasant of our nursing days. Summer Lily had never been more adorable, nursing never been more fulfilling, and my attitude never so cocky and unchallenged. These warm, cozy days of early winter I will cherish; too often I hear mothers lamenting they can't remember the last time little nursling stopped at the breast. I will remember these days as our last, they were too wonderful to forget. Everything was right, warm, comforting, precious, and full of promise. Together, we held long serious conversations about how new babies need mattens too, but so do girls who are, according to Summer Lily, "a little bit big and a little bit little", and the sweetness of these moments was only surpassed by that glorious moment in which a thousand watts of realization shone from Summer Lily's smiling face as she shared with me her very own observation that "mama has two breasties to have mattens with two babies! one mattens for Hizzy Hizzy, one mattens for New Baby!". And that was soon our mantra, our own rendition of life with New Baby. All was well and good because mama had two breasts of milk for her two babies. I suppose it was around the Christmas season or early new year that I realized the path we were walking down, the direction we were headed. Nursing had become more than just painful, it was unpleasant and I could no longer look forward to it. I began invisibly wincing through our twice daily sessions at nap and bedtime; and initiating the end of each nursing when I could no longer bear to hide my discomfort. I wiggled my toes, pinched the sheets, counted silently, chewed on my lip. Sometime between then and now, slowly, gradually, I made up my mind, as reluctant as could be to accept the answer that was so obvious yet unappealing. Somehow weaning happened, I think I sort of tuned out the process as it was happening or have since blocked it out. There was a small amount of fussing from my sweet girl, just enough I feel bad and regretful while still being able to assure myself that Summer Lily didn't truly suffer during the process.
Even though I felt it necessary and kind and gentle in many ways, I now question that I never discussed weaning with Summer Lily. Weeks dragged by and I wondered if she even realized that she wasn't nursing. I had never wanted to tell her "no more mattens" because I thought this concept would understandably break her heart, while she quietly accepted shortened nursing sessions and the mention of mama's breasts not having milk in them anymore. Too late, my decision to be what I thought at the time was kind and gentle, instead felt deceptive and wrong. I felt like I had tricked her to make things easier for myself. I felt that if I had only been up-front and honest with the decision I had made for both of us, that her heart would have broken so visibly that I would have continued nursing. I do not know what I regret: the choice to wean, or the quiet (deceptive) method I chose to arrive at the seemingly necessary outcome. How many times after whenever that truly last nursing session actually was, did she tell me with glee about my two breasts for two babies? How many times did I try to calm that bittersweet, sickening reaction I felt inside, complete with a lurching, churning stomach, wondering to myself what I could say that would be truthful yet gentle? Instead, I stood there, dumbfounded, staring, smiling a weak smile (only because she's so damned cute and you can't not smile when someone as darling as Summer Lily says something as darling as that...), and just didn't reply?
Just days ago, as I was dressing after a shower, Summer Lily asked about mattens. Or commented. Or something. I reminded her that I didn't have any milk in my breasts anymore, that the milk was all gone. She looked a little perplexed as she thought about this, and then burst into that great giggle-smile that she must hold the exclusive patent for, and cried out "yes mattens are all gone... because I drank them all up! I had so many mattens I drank them alllll up! But mama, there's LOTS of mattens in the fridge, and I can have mattens whenever I want, in a cup!". I didn't cry then, but do now as I type out this brief but significant event, but try to find closure and comfort in knowing that my sweet "little bit little, little bit big" girl thinks she doesn't have mattens any more because they are all gone -- because she loved mattens so much that she drank them all up. Oh, and you know what else she said? She told me I was a very nice mama because I always had so many mattens for her. And thank you. And she loves me very much.
So, despite my tears that are streaming down my face right now, I think we'll be OK. I think we are OK. And it's really not the end of anything, just a transition from one very important stage of life to another, and this trend of transitions and changes isn't going to end any time soon. Is it because I pumped so much mama-love into that mama milk, is that why it is so hard to let go? Whatever the reason, every time I look at my daughter with the most beautiful face, I will remind myself:
"And instead of saying all of your good-byes
Let them know that you realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make a good thing last
You realize the sun don't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round"
with much love,
Ashley.
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