I started bawling while spooning oatmeal and strawberries into my son's mouth this morning. Between bites of coagulated mush he would sing his little ode to nursing "side-y, side-y, side-y," and I realized that it's time to wean.
I love breastfeeding. We had our first conversation when he was about five minutes old and I'd unswaddled him and put him to my bare skin as we were wheeled out of the operating room. I could hardly feel my arms and chest after a brutal labor and delivery, but I knew how to guide his tiny mouth to my breast and he drank hungrily while peering up at me through his squinty little black eyes. Over the last 18 months we've learned a lot about each other during feeding time conversations. It is our sacred time. And it's coming to a close.
We sing to West all the time. One of his many nicknames is "Tiny Hansen," from the hours of time spent listening to Elton John during his first few weeks. Elton John is incredibly cathartic for postpartum hormones. This morning while I was sobbing over porridge, KEXP played Elton John's "Tiny Dancer." I cried some more, cleaned up the oatmeal, and nursed West for probably one of the last times. It was but one of the thousands of moments of letting go I'll experience for the rest of my life as West grows up. It is devastating, satisfying, and human. It is why I am here.