Little Miss has been CIO’d, and she is finally sleeping like the proverbial baby (unlike the real ones out there). She still cries herself to sleep but only for five minutes and then she’s out – not a peep for the next 12 hours. It’s a Praise-the-Lord miracle.
Now that we’ve more or less conquered sleep, we’re on to bigger, better things, like weaning. Yes, the fun never stops. Some moms are of the “she’ll self-wean when she’s ready” camp, and that’s great and all, but with the way Little Miss has been tugging at my shirt and reaching in for the goodies in public, it doesn’t look like she’ll move on anytime soon. Unless I plan to wear a turtleneck 24/7, this is not going to work, seeing as I only have four turtlenecks, and there are seven days in a week.
Besides, I miss my boobs. No, they haven’t left town, but for now, they serve a purely utilitarian function. I miss them as, you know…play things. Plus, I can’t wait to retire the nursing (read: cumbersome, unattractive, granny-panty-equivalent) bras and go back to the ones that got me Little Miss in the first place.
On the flip side, the pros are far outweighed by this one con: I will lose our special mom-and-baby bonding time. An act so powerful in its tenderness, I cherish the moments spent with her laying in my arms, her eyes half-dazed, her hands still, and she’s completely content as she suckles both for nourishment and for comfort. I use this time to touch her face, caress her hair, sing her the six lullabies I know before moving on to the late 80s soft pop music because, somehow, my brains have only managed to retain those. Hey, at least it’s not 70’s disco.
I have to admit, I’m selfishly stalling the weaning process because I don’t want to lose the high I get from her nestling up to me. It’s just so rare, so precious. Like the Hope diamond. Only better, since I bet the diamond doesn’t wear the intoxicating scent of Johnson and Johnson’s baby lotion.
I know it’s asking for the impossible, but I hope she will remember these moments. Maybe not the minutiae but that somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, there’s an indelible imprint, not unlike that of a memory foam mattress, that she will carry with her for the rest of her life. Even if she only feels the warmth that this memory conjures, it’s more than I could ask for.
As she turns one next week, I will prepare for her birthday party as well as for the last time I nurse her in the pale night light of her room. I will sing her the requisite six songs plus an 80s ballad, kiss her goodnight and bid this chapter of our lives farewell.
That night, I have a feeling, will be my turn to cry myself to sleep.