Henry has started to wean.
The last three nights he has gone to bed with his daddy. He reads a book, cuddles in close and falls right asleep. He didn't need to nurse to calm down, he just did it all on his own.
I was so relieved to be done pumping and also still able to nurse a few times a day that I didn't have time to think about when the last time might be. Lately he nurses for a few minutes, looks up and me giggling like "Hey mom, I'm just entertaining you a bit longer."
There have been signs. His love of food has directly correlated with my dipping supply. His ability to rip a privacy blanket off in public led to more private nursing. My tight shirts aren't feeling so tight anymore and I am suddenly a bit more aware that the habit of eating all the time like the calories will melt off is coming to an end.
It's been a good thing for both of us free of really any of the common complications. Sure, weaning will bring even more freedom - the final step in reclaiming my body after 20 months of donating it to someone else.
We're busy packing for a move and by the time I collapse into bed next to Henry, I realize we haven't nursed since the morning. I want to wake him up and snuggle him in, just one more time.
Because I had a rough couple of months initially with such deep sadness and then an anxiety that only has tempered itself, I have been worried about the hormones and emotions weaning can bring. I've tried to keep myself in check, taking an emotional timeout when I feel heavy.
All I can imagine is Henry as a little boy playing baseball, then a teenager looking a colleges and then a man getting married and him really no longer needing his mother anymore. I get teary thinking about him saying 'I do' and he's not even a year old. (I will not be that mom, I will not be that mom). He can't even walk and he's already stepping away from me.
I don't know when the last time will be. I just hope it wasn't this morning.