And it’s done. Rowan is officially weaned. I want to exclaim how my boobs are mine again, yay! But he seems to think my nipples are some sort of button? They’re his version of a fidget spinner. His security blanket. And omg, I’m about to crawl out of my skin.
Milestones are exciting but I’ve never been someone who gets weepy about them. Ok, I may have cried a little during pre-k graduation but I have never gotten verklempt about first steps or pooping in the potty. I tend more towards, That’s done. Check it off the list. What’s next?
I was thinking I hadn’t felt all that depressed this winter. Then I realized that everyone else is also depressed so I’m only less depressed by comparison. It’s difficult to wallow in this temporary darkness when we are all engulfed in an existential muck. We are all Artax and we’re walking through the Swamp of Sadness. Even the most optimistic among us are Atreyu, at best — doomed to keep up that grim determination lest The Nothing descend upon us all.
I have a confession to make: I really don’t particularly love nursing Rowan. I love the idea of it, but in reality he is at a stage that is something akin to trying to nurse a manic octopus. He claws at my arms, breasts, and face. His newfound locomotion has him trying to crawl while he nurses, gymnastic feats of sticking his butt in the air and doing the nursing equivalent of the dizzy bat game. He can’t seem to keep his top teeth off of me, and occasionally bites down — apparently just for the fun of it. He’s distractible, and he pops on and off repeatedly.
Let’s get the obligatory disclaimers out of the way: I fully support a family’s right to feed their baby in whatever way works best for them. Formula is not an enemy. And for women who desire to breastfeed we need to do everything in our power to help them succeed. We should be bulldozing the hurdles and sewing up the loopholes.