On weaning

My 20 month old Baby Girl and I have been done breastfeeding for a few weeks now.

I haven't really wanted to talk about it.

I'm not sure why exactly.  I really do feel okay about the decision and about the way it happened.  I really don't think my beautiful readers friends will judge me or criticize me for weaning her. I just haven't been ready to put myself out there about this because I am afraid it will draw controversy, and for me nothing about this was political.  Every ounce of it was personal, and it was between me and my daughter and no one else.

I want to say I'm proud for making it to 19 months, for going as long as I did, but honestly I think that's going a little far. I don't think my choices are any more admirable or honorable than anyone else's, and if I get to this point again I can't say I'll necessarily do things the same way again.  The best I can say is that it is what I did, and I have no regrets, and Baby Girl and I turned out just fine.

In truth, I never really intended to nurse as long as I did.  Everyone told me to nurse on demand for the first year, and so I did.  And then we hit a year, and I said "Okay, now what do I do?"

And everyone kind of looked at me and said "Well, whatever do you mean?"

You either keep going, or you stop.

Oh.

BG loved breastfeeding. It was pretty much her favorite activity. And well into her second year, she was tugging at my shirt at least 10 times a day.  When she learned to sign, her little cupped hand was asking for milk almost every time I looked at her.  Dang it, whose idea was it to teach her that sign anyway?

If I'm being honest, which is my intention, there were times I couldn't stand it. I resented it a little.  If I have any regrets at all, it's that I let myself continue to nurse in a way that made me annoyed at my baby for longer than I should have.  Because when they say "for as long as it's working for both mom and baby," well, the mom is an important part of that.

But at the same time, I still did love nursing her.  Maybe not quite  as often as she enjoyed it, but it was something that for me was worth continuing.

And then, when I was ready to night wean, I did.  It wasn't easy.  Several times I tried, and declared that I couldn't.  Looking back, I just don't think I was really ready or interested because boy, when I was ready, I just did it.

And then, when I couldn't stand being mommy on demand, I started telling her "not right now."  For a while, that was met with tantrums.  Then not.  She still asked from time to time, and you can't blame a girl for trying, but I'd just tell her no, and she'd move on.

And then one day she woke up in the morning and when she said "milk," I said "neh, let's just cuddle."  And she seemed okay with that, so we did.

And then one night at bedtime, I said "let's not do that tonight."  And we read an extra book.  And she didn't cry.  And then we were done.

Am I sad about it?  A little.  But at the same time, I was ready.  Really ready.  Is she sad about it?  Not so much that I can tell.  She still nestles her head in my chest.  She still gropes me when we're out sometimes. (Umm, does anyone know how to get her to stop doing that?)  She's a little clingier than she was.  

But she's still my little girl, and she's still her sweet happy charming self.  No one has been damaged, nothing has been lost.  Every moment we've had together still exists and is still as perfect as it was.

It's just time for the next thing.

Quiet

I've been quiet around here lately.  In fact, Saturday was my blogiversary and I celebrated it by not writing.

That's disappointing.

I don't have an easy answer to why.  There are things in my head that I don't know how to put into words, and there are things that I don't necessarily want to put out into the world, but I don't think that's the whole problem.

I'm an introvert, a serious introvert, and I'm having to remind myself more and more that that isn't a fault.  That not wearing my feelings on my sleeve doesn't make me any less brave than the women and men who do.

But it does make me wonder a little bit what I'm doing here.

There is a way in which writing comes naturally to me, in which writing is what makes me feel like me, heals whatever it is that is wrong in my head.

And there's a way in which this isn't that.

I don't know if that makes any sense.

There's a whole part of blogging that isn't about writing at all, the part that's social and interactive, the part that's about going out into the world and trying to convince people that what you have to say is worth saying.

And I'm not really interested in that.  And I think it's important to me to say that.  Because sometimes I feel like I'm failing, like I'm not where I thought I'd be after a year, like I must not be doing it right.

But it's not that I can't do it.  It's that I'm not interested in doing it.

But at the same time, when I do write something I'm really proud of, I sometimes think, well what's the point?  I mean, I know my friends are reading, and maybe that should be enough.  But sometimes it isn't.

So, I don't know.  This little piece of the web matters.  I know this.  And it isn't going to go viral.  And it's never going to make me a bunch of money.  And it probably isn't going to get me a book deal.  And it probably isn't going to change the world.

But I do want to write. And I do want what I write to be good.  And I want it to be real and true, and I want it to matter.

But lately my head is either too loud or too quiet,