Thursday, March 5, 2015
Last night was the first night I've put my daughter to bed without nursing her. Forty days shy of her second birthday, she has officially weaned. We've been gradually weaning since her first birthday, so it came as no surprise. I knew it wouldn't go on forever; and yet, I cried. I bawled my eyes out. And then I laughed because we started our nursing relationship with tears, and ended it with tears as well. I remember the first few weeks. The cracks, the bleeding, the painful letdowns, the contractions as my uterus returned to its pre-baby size. It hurt like hell, and I cried. I hadn't been able to nurse my twins, so I was bound and determined to make it happen with my daughter. We pushed through. She had silent reflux. We pushed through. She seemed to spit up everything I was managing to get in to her. We pushed through. We learned together, and now, nearly two years later, we've come to the end of our nursing journey. I hated it at the beginning, didn't enjoy it every step of the way, but I'm going to miss the hell out of it.