Deacon, in a milk coma This is my story as I’m in the midst of weaning my youngest child. Please understand that is all this is—my story. If breastfeeding or conception has been a struggle for you, please know you have my sympathy and prayers for peace, and that I do not take the privileges I have lightly. My uncertainty about what’s next does not negate thankfulness for what has already come.
“The first thing is, you’re never going to feed him at night again. Ever.” I wonder if our wonderful pediatrician noticed my look of panic when he said this. I had asked him about weaning and sleeping through the night and what my first step should be. I wanted his advice. But his use of “never” and “ever” were jarring.
I have always wanted four children. The oldest of four married to the youngest of four, when Daniel and I talked about how many children we wanted to have, that’s what we (both) always said. Then we had one child, it rocked our world and tiny city rowhome, and we decided to take it one at a time.
Last year, when we welcomed our third child, our son Deacon, the physical circumstances were easier. We lived in a house with ample space, whereas before we were cramped. I stayed home with the kids, whereas before I was working at least one full time job. We had some breathing room financially, whereas before we were pinching pennies to cover a too-high mortgage and dig out of debt. It should have been easier, we thought. But adjusting to being a family of five, as I’ve said over and over, has been a challenge. In retrospect, as I watch this funny, affectionate, precious little boy toddle around, sometimes the past year feels like one long night.
“The first thing is, you’re never going to feed him at night again. Ever.” I wonder if our wonderful pediatrician noticed my look of panic when he said this. I had asked him about weaning and sleeping through the night and what my first step should be. I wanted his advice. But his use of “never” and “ever” were jarring.
I have always wanted four children. The oldest of four married to the youngest of four, when Daniel and I talked about how many children we wanted to have, that’s what we (both) always said. Then we had one child, it rocked our world and tiny city rowhome, and we decided to take it one at a time.
Last year, when we welcomed our third child, our son Deacon, the physical circumstances were easier. We lived in a house with ample space, whereas before we were cramped. I stayed home with the kids, whereas before I was working at least one full time job. We had some breathing room financially, whereas before we were pinching pennies to cover a too-high mortgage and dig out of debt. It should have been easier, we thought. But adjusting to being a family of five, as I’ve said over and over, has been a challenge. In retrospect, as I watch this funny, affectionate, precious little boy toddle around, sometimes the past year feels like one long night.
Mirabella, our first baby I struggled to nurse my other two babies while I worked, making it to just shy of six months with the first, and to just shy of one year with the second, fighting and pumping and supplementing along the way. This time, with Deacon, has been a different sort of struggle. We were always together, so it wasn’t that, but I fought tongue tie and a missed diagnosis, recurring plugged ducts, dairy sensitivity (his, and then mine), and a lot of unexplained pain.
One day, around seven months in, I realized it didn’t hurt anymore. It had become easy, like it was always “supposed” to be. I congratulated myself for fighting through it, for fighting for it.
I always knew I would try to breastfeed, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have conflicted feelings about it. I wasn’t prepared for the way it seemed to bind me to the clock, the first time, or to the baby third time; I couldn’t have known how it would feel to be openly judged while nursing, even discreetly, in public. I didn’t know about the silent solidarity I’d feel with other nursing moms, but least of all, I wasn’t prepared for the emotional connection it would give me to my baby. Of course I still felt it when I stopped nursing the other two as well. Of course I’d be connected either way. {Again, this is a story of my experience with breastfeeding, not why everyone should have one. I don’t know what the right way for you to feed your baby is. It hasn’t even always been clear to me what was right for me, and that’s what we’re talking about here.}
One day, around seven months in, I realized it didn’t hurt anymore. It had become easy, like it was always “supposed” to be. I congratulated myself for fighting through it, for fighting for it.
I always knew I would try to breastfeed, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have conflicted feelings about it. I wasn’t prepared for the way it seemed to bind me to the clock, the first time, or to the baby third time; I couldn’t have known how it would feel to be openly judged while nursing, even discreetly, in public. I didn’t know about the silent solidarity I’d feel with other nursing moms, but least of all, I wasn’t prepared for the emotional connection it would give me to my baby. Of course I still felt it when I stopped nursing the other two as well. Of course I’d be connected either way. {Again, this is a story of my experience with breastfeeding, not why everyone should have one. I don’t know what the right way for you to feed your baby is. It hasn’t even always been clear to me what was right for me, and that’s what we’re talking about here.}
Emerie, our second little monster There is something comforting about having the silver bullet of breastfeeding—it’s the power of knowing I always have a way to calm and soothe my child. There’s something about the way he looks at me, the way he casually reaches up to stroke my face. I didn’t expect to feel it, and I can’t describe it. He needs me, but it’s not only that.
As I write this, at ten til 6:00, he complains in his crib. I am letting him fuss until 6:00, helping him adjust to a more “normal” wake up time (he had previously been programmed for about 5:00). We are finally making it (just about) 11-12 hours with only minimal fussing here and there. Our pediatrician tells me this step—night weaning—is the first step toward general weaning. And I’m ready but not ready.
Something about having a boy when you already have girls or maybe about having a third, or maybe just about living in our culture right now seems to compel people—literal strangers—to comment on my reproductive plans. When I was pregnant and out in the world with my two little girls, it was, “ You have your hands full. I hope that’s a boy in there,” (gesturing toward my belly). And then, “Good. Are you done?” Then he was born, and as I wore him close to my chest and held two little hands, again, “Is that a boy? Are you done?” And still, now, all the time. Always I give a forced smile and some version of, “I don’t know yet,” or “My husband says yes, I say we’ll see.”
Of course my real (if unspoken) answer is, “Have we met?” In what world is it okay to ask a stranger about her reproductive choices? I’m not sure why my having more than two children is anyone’s business. I’m not asking for help raising them. Yet these are things people say.
So we’ve had plenty of opportunities to talk through whether this is it, and here is where we land. Daniel feels strongly that, biologically speaking, our family is complete. He feels at peace. And I don’t know whether we’re done or not done, but I know I don’t feel at peace with the idea yet. I have polled mothers whose season of babies is in the rearview. I wanted to know how they knew. Most of them, but not all, tell me the time came when they did. A few tell me, even though they have moved past that season, they still don’t have the peace I seek.
As I write this, at ten til 6:00, he complains in his crib. I am letting him fuss until 6:00, helping him adjust to a more “normal” wake up time (he had previously been programmed for about 5:00). We are finally making it (just about) 11-12 hours with only minimal fussing here and there. Our pediatrician tells me this step—night weaning—is the first step toward general weaning. And I’m ready but not ready.
Something about having a boy when you already have girls or maybe about having a third, or maybe just about living in our culture right now seems to compel people—literal strangers—to comment on my reproductive plans. When I was pregnant and out in the world with my two little girls, it was, “ You have your hands full. I hope that’s a boy in there,” (gesturing toward my belly). And then, “Good. Are you done?” Then he was born, and as I wore him close to my chest and held two little hands, again, “Is that a boy? Are you done?” And still, now, all the time. Always I give a forced smile and some version of, “I don’t know yet,” or “My husband says yes, I say we’ll see.”
Of course my real (if unspoken) answer is, “Have we met?” In what world is it okay to ask a stranger about her reproductive choices? I’m not sure why my having more than two children is anyone’s business. I’m not asking for help raising them. Yet these are things people say.
So we’ve had plenty of opportunities to talk through whether this is it, and here is where we land. Daniel feels strongly that, biologically speaking, our family is complete. He feels at peace. And I don’t know whether we’re done or not done, but I know I don’t feel at peace with the idea yet. I have polled mothers whose season of babies is in the rearview. I wanted to know how they knew. Most of them, but not all, tell me the time came when they did. A few tell me, even though they have moved past that season, they still don’t have the peace I seek.
Photo credit: Sara Beth Roberts This matters because I have tried to be aware— through this pregnancy, through this birth, through these extended sleepless nights, through this babyhood, through this nursing experience—that this might be the last time. I have resolved to treat it as if it were. This intentional attitude reminded me to see wonder through pain, fleeting joy through exhaustion, the beautiful miracle of nursing that I can’t manage to capture in words, because it might never be again. So I closed my eyes with hands on my belly before he was born and tried to memorialize the way it felt—the feeling of life within that I may not feel again. I study his changing face every day, as he transitions too quickly from baby to boy. And I stare at him now as he nurses, less frequently than before. His toddler body sprawled across my lap, his hands reaching for the hollow of my neck, his smiling eyes locked on mine. I’m painfully aware he won’t sit and let me hold him this long when this is over. And I’m crying as I write this, because it’s almost over.
Daniel is excited for us to spend our first night away since Deacon was born. He’s booked a gorgeous suite at an amazing bed and breakfast in Asheville in mid March. There will be couples massages. He can’t wait and, mostly, neither can I. It’s just that it’s on the other side of weaning this little boy. This baby who may well be my last.
We face our next phase with uncertainty, anticipation and joy. But for me, it’s not without a distinct sense of the end of something beautiful, something good.
Daniel is excited for us to spend our first night away since Deacon was born. He’s booked a gorgeous suite at an amazing bed and breakfast in Asheville in mid March. There will be couples massages. He can’t wait and, mostly, neither can I. It’s just that it’s on the other side of weaning this little boy. This baby who may well be my last.
We face our next phase with uncertainty, anticipation and joy. But for me, it’s not without a distinct sense of the end of something beautiful, something good.
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