My little boy is over two years old now. How is it possible that I am breastfeeding a talking, eating, running little 26 month old boy? I was convinced that I wouldn't even be able to bring him to my breast even once, and then we made it to six weeks with our Supplemental Nursing System, then five months, and then the big one for me: one year.
Two years kind of slipped by unassumingly, actually. I no longer felt that breastfeeding was an active choice I was making, but had simply become a very personal part of my mothering. He stopped breastfeeding in the day at around 18 months, and always adamantly declared 'Nei!' when I offered. Nights, though, have always been a different story. The various pros and cons are changing, and my own breastfeeding experience is continuing to challenge and educate me... and nursing aversion is a big part of that.
For the past six-ish months, there is usually two evenings every month where I put my toddler to bed in our usual manner -- singing the Long Time Sun Song, lying down together in his big double bed, turning on his sleepy music (Bon Iver -- he has good taste) and breastfeeding him either to sleep or to almost sleep. Nothing is different to the norm, and yet these two or sometimes three evenings a month, I emerge in tears, seething with such intense anger, wanting to scream and throw something that will break into a hundred pieces, wishing I could just run out the door and just keep run run running to a dark cave where nobody will touch me for the next year.
|Jetlag: Too tired for PJs, too tired even for boobie!|
So I found myself sitting on the couch with my husband who steeled himself and dared to ask me if I wanted to wean. He held me as I sobbed and said yes, but I don't know how. I mean, yes, I know all the practical 'hows', but the emotional? No idea.
The next day? Weaning wasn't even on the table. I enjoyed it again, enjoyed being there for my boy to comfort him and be what he needs in the night. I dreamt of him night-weaning, but also feared that this would be the end, as he didn't feed in the day. The few times I have gotten my husband to help out in the nights (he always deals with our eldest at night, who sleeps through almost consistently, finally!), it has almost always been a disaster and been more emotional trauma than it was worth, so we just continue to plod along.
|Airport breastfeeding, at what would have been 10.30pm.|
But I'm not one to keep things simple ;)