There comes a time in every woman's life when she must reclaim what is hers. When she must gather strength to honour herself and the path she sees before her. When she need not fear the repercussions of her decisions, but plant her feet firmly in the ground and hold on as the winds of change whip violently at her fortitude and dignity.
In this case it was a toddler jamming his dirty little toddler hands into my cleavage, but I thought the above sounded a more tasteful.
Spawnling and I have been talking at length about his upcoming birthday in October. I had big plans for his third birthday, and I don't mean a trip to the zoo. Using a little method I call
He seemed very keen on becoming a big boy. So keen, in fact, that he announced quite suddenly on Thursday that he was not going to have mommy's milk anymore (no mention of the diapers. Damn it!) I was skeptical and tried not to get too excited. After all, this was sounding too good to be true. Spawnling practicing self-led weaning? About as likely as Amy Winehouse getting sober without an intervention.
We have to backtrack a little to get the full scope of my incredulous reaction. I never wanted to breastfeed before Intrepid was born. When he was in my belly I figured I might try it, but I said it like I was thinking about making a Bundt cake. "I've never made a Bundt cake before, but I hear they're decent. Maybe a little better than a regular cake. How about I try to make one, but if it doesn't work out I'll just go buy some eclairs? That sounds reasonable." It was a lot like that.
I was nineteen, and breastfeeding wasn't cool like it is today, kids, nor was the information readily available on the internets like it is for all you spoiled brats. We had to go to the store or the library and acquire fancy books on the subject - and there were far fewer of those, too.
But when Intrepid was placed in my arms and my milk started leaking to the sounds of his cries, I knew I didn't want to feed him any other way. We had a very difficult go of it and he ended up weaning to a bottle at eight months, but it was a good run overall. Not as long as I had wanted, however, and I vowed to make it last longer the second time: no introduction of bottles, no comments from the peanut gallery about how or for how long I should feed my child. It was going to be me with my baby at the breast for as long as we both wanted (which would be no more than a year to eighteen months, just so we're clear. Any longer than that would be disgusting and perverted and take too much time away from other things I wanted in my life, don't you know.)
I nursed Gutsy for 3 1/2 years.
When you do the math, it goes a little something like this: I have been pregnant and/or breastfeeding since Spring of 2002. That's over seven years of continuous maternal hormones. Seven years of dedicating my body to the feeding and care of gremlins.
Seven. Freaking. Years. And that's not even counting the gestation and milk provision of Intrepid.
Despite being a postpartum doula and unabashed lactivist, I feel so, so ready to be done. I reclaimed my uterus for the last time 33 months ago and eagerly anticipated having my breasts join the 'welcome home' party.
Don't get me wrong: I've never been in a big hurry, nor did I ever want to be forceful about it. I did have a goal of between two and three years this time, but I was gently working towards that goal without being a bully about it. Breastfeeding, like most parenting endeavors, is not an exact science. However, if I could wave a magic wand, I would not only make all lattes calorie-free, but would also have a mutually agreed upon weaning time in place with no tears from either of party.
When Spawnling announced he was done having mommy's milk, I went into a state of shock. When I put him to bed without unclasping the sleep inducer, I grinned in that excited and bewildered way. This was going to be great! Finally, something was happening according to The Plan of Maven. Finally, the universe was unfolding as it should and granting me a little peace and tranquility.
5 AM was absolutely horrible. I mean, tantrums are bad, but tantrums before it's even light out? Brutal. I was kicked, screamed at and clawed at. It's a good thing I had the foresight to wear a sports bra and tight t-shirt tucked into my pajama pants or we both would have weakened in our tired states. I was also crafty enough to offer up some bribery before bedtime: if Spawnling didn't nurse overnight, I would buy him some little Cars figurines in the morning.
It took about twenty minutes to convince him that Lightning McQueen was worth taking a sippy cup, but it worked. That morning he was rewarded with ridiculously pricey toys that almost never leave his side. That night he only screamed for two minutes. The night after, he whined and groped me for thirty seconds.
Sounds good, right? Absolutely! Until I mention that I barely slept all weekend. In fact, Saturday night - after hosting a surprise "back to work" party for Pixie - I managed three hours of couch sleep followed by three hours of broken sleep in my bed. It was broken because Spawnling, who had not mastered the 'going back to sleep without nursing' trick just yet, sat in my bed and used my body as a racetrack for his new toys. When he wanted me to get him a third morning snack and I didn't budge, he stuck his fingers up my nose and giggled. He poked my ears, stuck twigs in my hair and smacked my bum.
I'm so glad I quit nursing. See how easy this has made my life?
Yesterday Spawnling jumped up and said 'Look at me, Mom! I grew! I a big boy now because I all done having mommy's milk!' He then proceeded to run around to everyone in the house and tell them about his sudden growth spurt.
He's also found new ways to get close to me. Yesterday he grabbed both my cheeks, pulled my face in and gave me a big, wet toddler kiss. 'I love you, mommy. I love you so much.'
That totally made up for the nose picking incident.
Last night, Spawnling slept straight through and woke up smiling. He hugged me good morning, asked for a cup of soy milk and a granola bar, and played with his Cars toys.
Other than acting like a Tasmanian devil on the first night he's done fairly well. Like a mama bird, all I had to do was encourage what was already there. I knew he could fly, I just had to nudge him out of the nest a bit and block when he tried to kick my ribs in.
Am I sad? Not in the slightest. I've nearly spent a combined seven years nursing my three gremlins. For all my faults, this is something I feel damn good about. I think I should buy myself a terribly baby-unfriendly bra in honour of my awesomeness. Something with scary under wire and ridiculous amounts of lace.
Also, if I could find some prescription medication I'm not supposed to take while nursing I might wolf that down, too. Not because I need it, but because I can. Anyone have some strong antihistamines?
Long live the free range mounds of Maven. May they rest peacefully upon my reclaimed body, and not shrivel up into tiny raisins.
