An emotional end

There are so many "firsts" and "lasts" that come with being a parent. I found that I have celebrated the firsts without acknowledging most of the lasts.  However, I am drawn back to this blog (which has been neglected for months) to celebrate/acknowledge/mourn the end of a very special period of my life.  Last Friday, February 13th, 2015, I nursed Hayes, my last baby, for the last time.

The end to our nursing relationship was unplanned and rather abrupt.  Hudson became ill and Ryan fled to his parents with Hadley and Hayes in tow in an attempt to keep them germ free. What was meant to be a 24 hour period (after which I would have easily nursed Hayes again) turned into a three day separation.  The morning that they were to return home I cried (and cried and cried) while washing dishes because I knew that now was the right time to wean, despite the emotional turbulence it was causing me.

At 27 months old, I knew Hayes no longer needed the nutrition...in fact, I don't think there was even any milk left for him to drink.  But nursing was our calm.  It was our solution to scraped knees. It was our comfort against big feelings in his little body.  It was our warmth when the cold overwhelmed.  It was our bond.  And it had been for his lifetime.

A small part of me was sad for Hayes.  I knew that he would want to nurse and I would have to tell him no.  I wasn't really sure how he would handle it, but I was okay with him being a little upset and angry with me.  So fear of his response wasn't what was causing my reaction.

The most difficult part was the thought of a very important chapter in my life closing forever.  It took me six days to find the strength to even right this post and I'm still sitting here typing through tears.  I was "one of those women" who LOVED everything about being pregnant and breastfeeding.  Watching my belly, my family, and my life grow before my eyes gave me a feeling of pride, strength, and true happiness.  Feeling those baby kicks was magical. Friends and oogling strangers were welcomed to touch my belly, ask when I was due, and congratulate me.  I loved the attention to the miracle that was taking place and proud of my part in it.  When the baby came and I loved getting to meet him/her.  That first rooting of the mouth looking for the breast combined with the knowledge of what the baby needs and that I can provide it is empowering beyond words.  The first few weeks came with their hurdles as my body and baby's worked together to figure out how to get this right.  But after that, we were smooth sailing.  All of those times when I wasn't quite sure what the baby needed, I would offer my breast and he or she would take it, gratefully.  All of those images of a milk-drunk newborn sleeping on my chest.  All of the signs (in sign language) for "milk". All of that warmth, those connections, those bonds, and the foundation of my relationship with each of my children. And all of those times have come to an end.  I am proud of myself (and my children) for nursing for approximately 67 months.  Five and a half of my 35 years have been dedicated to nourishing my children with milk and with love.  We have done a great thing together, me and my children.  And I am grateful for each and every one of those minutes.  I offer a saddened farewell to my childrearing years and know that the next time I feel this connected with a baby won't happen until I welcome grandchildren.

If the shortened pant legs and the expanding vocabularies weren't enough of a sign, then certainly this last drop of milk is.  My babies are growing up.

#bittersweet
#endofanera