He hugs me. He kisses me on the cheek.
But to me, he’s still my baby. I still nursed him. That makes him my baby.
Up until yesterday.
We’ve been weaning for nearly two weeks now. Yesterday, we decided to see if he would go to bed without the last bedtime feed.
And that was it. It’s over.
I breastfed my son for 547 days.
And now, it’s over. Finished. The end.
It is bittersweet. I’m happy he doesn’t to nurse to sleep. But I’m also sad. I admit, I cried a little when I was in the shower this morning.
I cried for the end of an act that bonded us as mother and son, a bond that is like no other.
I cried because he is no longer a baby (because who doesn’t love babies). He’s growing up. He’s a little boy.
I cried knowing that with the end of nursing, I can now kick start my body into preparing for another child. A great want that I wrote about in this post.