Author: Rebecca Cuneo Keenan

Irene wore her green pajamas last night and she yawned and rubbed her eyes, fending off sleep. She clung to me with one arm and urgently pointed to the rocking chair with the other, and patted my chest. When I sat down with her in my lap and began to unfasten my nursing bra, she laughed with anticipation. I love that laugh. She eagerly latched on and gazed up at me, safe and secure, settling in for the night the same way she has every day of her life.  I started to cry. The tears are welling up right now as I think of it and a lump has formed in my throat and my heart aches so. Because that was the last time I’ll ever breastfeed my little Irene, and she wasn’t ready for that to end. I’m not ready for that to end.

I need to take a course of hardcore antibiotics to treat a serious, painful and potentially disfiguring infection in my face. I need to take this medication and it is absolutely forbidden that I should breastfeed while doing so. Irene is over 16 months old now, so there’s really no point in trying to keep up my milk supply in the meantime. It’s over; it needs to be and of that I have no doubt. I am haunted only by the kind of quasi-guilt that we all tend to regarding physical afflictions: the feelings of inadequacy about a slower metabolism or a bigger shoe size or infertility. These things are not subject to our conscious control and yet we still somehow feel as though we are to blame — even though we know better.

Colum was only two months older than Irene when he was fully weaned. In fact, a friend asked just the other day if I cried when he stopped breastfeeding. I had to laugh because I hadn’t at all. I had just as wonderful and fulfilling a breastfeeding relationship with Colum as I did with Irene, but it had run its course. At 18 months we found ourselves enjoying a short morning nurse and then we’d miss the odd day and then we didn’t need it anymore. (Irene was still nursing 3 to 4 times a day.) I can’t even remember the last time I breastfed Colum. It was absolutely the easiest and most painless transition and I couldn’t imagine weaning a child any other way.

So, yes, Colum was only two months older than Irene when he was weaned, but it’s not about age. Really, age has nothing to do with it. It has everything to do with a loving and nurturing relationship having to be severed prematurely by an outside force. Irene loved nursing so much and I expected her to continue longer than Colum did. (Even though I was limiting her feeds and gradually, gently guiding her toward a long-term goal of weaning.) I really cherished that special time together, the physical closeness I could offer her that her brother couldn’t threaten to take away, and the profound sense of security being able to nurse offered an increasingly independent and adventurous toddler.

Conversely, when that breastfeeding relationship is no longer fulfilling to either the mother or the child — be that at 3 weeks or 8 months or 3 years — then it makes sense to end it. I am not grieving the loss of some ideal of greatly-extended breastfeeding in and of itself. We had a wonderful breastfeeding relationship for over 16 months and for that I am exceedingly grateful. I am also keenly aware that for many it seems absurd to continue breastfeeding for that long in the first place. Maybe it is for some people, but this is really the sweetest time to breastfeed in many respects. The fact that it is completely optional means that you don’t have to worry about being apart from your baby all day or all night — you can just pick up where you left off later. You can revel in your child’s waning babyhood as you are still able to offer all the reassurance they need with a simple, natural, physical act. You can even do away with the nursing bras if you want to and relegate all breastfeeding to your own home. (Read greater wardrobe flexibility, not shame about feeding in public because I am all about that.) You can even enjoy firm and full breasts without all that leaking and engorgement.

As I cried last night, I realized how many feeds were about me just trying to grab a few extra minutes of shut-eye in the morning, or desperate attempts to get her to fall asleep, or just moments where I retreated into my own head space. When did I last really spend this time with her? So I got myself together and focused on the moment. I told Irene how much I love her and why I am so proud of her, hoping those words might be able to trigger the same sense of love and security in the future. I held her close. I watched her happily nursing, completely oblivious that it would be her last time. I put her to bed and then I took my fist pill.

This was last night and we’re fine, of course. Thank god I managed to better separate the nursing from the sleeping just a couple weeks ago, so that is not as big an issue as it could have been. This morning was a little rocky as she grabbed at my shirt wanting to cuddle in bed with me. Instead, we cuddled with Colum and watched a cartoon on TV while drinking milk from a sippy cup before gorging on Cheerios and strawberries. I think strawberries may be the nipple of the berry family. She was a bit cranky going down for her nap without a feed, too, and generally pretty clingy all evening. Her dad put her to bed with a lullabye and I got to read Colum his bedtime story. (If you want to call a book about the ROM’s dinosaur collection a story.) And while my breasts certainly feel full there has not been any pain (yet — fingers crossed).

So my heart is still heavy for now, but I’m trying to embrace the opportunity this has afforded me to reflect on our breastfeeding relationship. And, of course, to share it all with you.

(Image courtesy Mel ‘GW’ Stampa on Flickr.)

DAILY SNACK

“You see this penny, Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it has the queen on one side,

And then you turn it over,

And there’s poison ivy.”

“Those are actually maple leaves, Colum.”

“No, poison ivy.”

“No, I’m sorry sweetie, but those are maple leaves.”

“Well, maple leaves grow in poison ivy,

So we’ll just say it’s poison ivy.”

“Okay, fine.”

And then, half an hour later,

He thought he spotted dinosaur fossils in the driveway.

I showed him that the fossil was actually just some dried mud the car dragged in.

As I’m strapping him into his carseat, I say,

“You know Colum, you might want to be an archaeologist when you grow up.”

“Maa-om, I want to be a photographer.”

“Yes, I know that. But do you even know what an archaeologist does?”

“What?”

“He digs up dinosaur bones.”

“That’s a paleontologist.”

“Oh. I think you’re right. Never mind then.”

Colum will turn four in less than two months. Image courtesy of Coined For Money.