At almost eighteen months, Baby Brown Eyes is still very attached to nursing. For the most part, I'm ok with this. It's when he's up ten times a night to nurse, or clamps down on me while he falls asleep, or decides my nipple is a fun toy that should stretch like a rubber band, that I tell Mr. Brown Eyes, "I am so weaning him."
I never do, though. Maybe because nursing is still a quick, easy way to dry his tears when he's grumpy and get him to sleep when he's tired. Because I know, deep down, that he will wean himself when he's ready. And there's really no reason to rush him into it now.
The other day, I thought that far-off time had finally come. When I came home from work, Baby didn't seem very interested in nursing. I tried to encourage him to because I was very full, but he started fussing. So I gave him a sippy cup of milk. And he toddled happily away.
Shocked, I turned to Mr. Brown Eyes. "I think he's weaning," I said sadly.
Mr. Brown Eyes laughed shortly. "That's what you've been wanting, isn't it?"
It was. But it wasn't at the same time. Even as glorious visions of sleep-filled nights and un-sore nipples flooded my mind, I felt deeply depressed. I realize this was probably mostly hormone-related, but all the same, I was slightly relieved the next day when Baby continued his nursing routine as if nothing had happened.
I always thought the day Baby weaned was so far away, but it could be closer than I think. As could all those other milestones that seem so far-off: speaking in sentences, potty-training, going to school, growing facial hair, driving a car, dating, going on a mission, going to college, getting married...
I think he will be ready to wean before I am.
Nursing another day,
The Brown-Eyed Girl