The End

Tonight marks the end of a beloved role, played off and on for the past 13 years.  As I held my baby and swayed back and forth before his crib, silent tears streamed down my cheeks.  Tonight is the official end of being a "nursing mother."  And I'll admit, it feels like the end of me in some ways.  An hour ago, as I stood by the crib and rocked, Davey nestled in with his head on my shoulder kicking back and forth in the way we call "happy feet."   

And I just soaked in the joy and pain of the moment.  The physical pain of closeness with engorgement was trivial next to the emotional pain I was feeling.  Part of me wanted him to lunge toward his crib as he often does when tired and part of me was grateful he didn't.   Honestly, I think his happy feet were more for the noise they made as they brushed against my jacket than for any understanding of the significance of the moment.  But as I lay him down, I lay down a piece of my heart. 

Last Saturday night, Davey woke up and I fed him without checking the clock.  I assumed it was our 5:00 am feeding.  The only feeding left in a long and uncommittedly drawn out "weaning" process.   It was 2:00 am.  So when I was done, I gave him to his dad and father put son back to bed.  At 5:00 am, when baby awoke, I told dad to handle it since "I had just fed him and I should probably stop nursing anyway."  I really just wanted more sleep.   And dad did it.  He walked that baby back to sleep and then when the baby got up for the morning around 6:30 am, he took him downstairs and fed him breakfast.  

Wow.  I thought.  If I do this again tomorrow, I could be done.  Now, no one is telling me I need to be done.  And baby Davey is NOT a needy nurser currently, which makes weaning all the more difficult.   He goes to sleep fine without it, unless I want a reason NOT to put my other kids to bed.  Then I can announce that "I need to nurse the baby," and escape to my quiet room with a child who sends pure love in his eyes and nursing smile while worshipping me as the sun, moon, and stars for a few blissful moments.  But babysitters have no trouble putting him down to sleep.  And I have gradually stopped all daytime feedings so nursing is really just there as an "option" for when I feel like feeding him or he really needs comfort or strength, etc.  

Except for at 5:00 am.  This feeding is all about my sleep.   My husband is often out of town and I am too exhausted to get up at that time of day, knowing that full chaos assaults with the 6:30 alarm.  And while I have stopped nursing during the day, Davey doesn't take a bottle and doesn't like milk or formula at all.  So it's water or juice or a mixture of the two at best, from a sippy cup that always leaks no matter how "spill proof."  And at 5:00 am the value and convenience of nursing is clear.  Baby right back to sleep.  Momma too.  Baby full of milk.  

Sunday I was extremely busy and I was not home around bed time to give any of this any thought.  Monday morning at 4:00 am the baby woke up screaming and I realized I had to make a choice.  When is enough for us?  Davey is just over 15 months old.  There is no harm in stopping and no harm in continuing.  In fact there are good reasons and benefits on each side and plenty of advice all around.  But I have learned from past experience that if you get this close to it, and you turn back, you may end up nursing a lot longer than you wanted too.  And if you feel like you've made a mistake... you can sometimes start again.  So, I let him scream.  He cried until 5:30 am when I finally got up and took him downstairs for breakfast.  

Monday night, a little tired and sore, I put him down again and wondered if I would really follow through.  I went to sleep early and we repeated the scene this morning.  Yesterday I was sore.  Today I could barely move my arms.  I admit, I am surprised how painful it is going from one feeding to none.  

And tonight, the finality of it all sunk in.  Last baby.  Last baby.  I will never nurse again.  I will never nurse this angel, whose survival has been so closely entwined with mine.  I remember the day he arrived back at Mount Auburn Hospital from Mass. General's NICU.  I swallowed up enormous guilt with my secret that I did not want him to come back so soon.  I was not ready to try to nurse him.  I couldn't stand the thought.  I was in so much physical and emotional pain over the labor and delivery experience that I felt a horrible sense of relief when they had taken him away and told me not to even think about pumping for the first 24 hours.  Just rest.  Best for your milk in the long run.  So when he surprised everyone and came back in less than three full days, I was terrified.  I had barely started pumping.  I was on codeine and Motrin every 4-6 hours.  I was in no mood to breastfeed.  What if I couldn't do it?  What if it hurt even worse than normal?  What if I had no milk since I had not been building up my supply?  

My friend Colleen was there and I asked her to say a prayer with me.  I prayed that I would want to nurse this baby and have the courage and capacity to do it.  Maybe I didn't say it like that but I thought it.  It was a long slow trip to the nursery.  And as soon as he latched on... we were alright.  All of the drama faded and there was only me and baby and love.  Relief flooded more than milk.  But I knew true healing had started.

My experiences nursing babies have been the good bad and ugly.  I literally have scar tissue still from my first child to prove it (and if you look under his tongue, so might he).  And although I have never felt like it was something I or anyone else HAS to do... I am lucky to say it has mostly worked for me.  In 1995 I wrote a somewhat bitter and now lost essay entitled, "My Life As a Beverage."  Between then and now, I have nursed babies in airplanes, restaurants, bathroom stalls, dressing rooms, park benches, and movie theaters.  I have answered the door with only one button done up accidentally.  I have left the grocery store with wet circles after someone else's baby cried.  And one of my sons spent months walking around with nursing pads tucked into the waist band of his pants so he could "nooz ma bebe" when needed.  And of course they always fell out in the most public of places.  

And now I'm done.  And this role is over.  And the world isn't.  My children love me.  I have times and seasons ahead full of new roles that I will learn to love as this one.  The physical pain is already easing up ever so slightly.  As I type my arms can brush my chest without needles stabbing me.   And I know what this means.  And I can't stand it.