Weaning Charlie

Nursing, like most of parenting, is a mixed bag.  There’s a lot of lovliness mixed in with a lot of hassle.  So, weaning, when it comes upon a nursing mom, is pure bittersweetness accompanied by both relief and longing.

And today, Charlie is weaned.  And I’m happy because it tied me down.  And I’m sad because I loved it.

All things considered, breastfeeding, for me, has been easy.  I know that it can be pretty difficult for a lot of moms leading some to jump through all sorts of hoops, struggling through the misery of mastitis, the pain of plugged ducts and sore nipples, and the incredibly time-consuming act of pumping.  Some moms fight through this struggle for weeks and months before things improve and some moms throw in the towel and fix a bottle.  And who can blame them?  The baby needs to be fed and the mommy needs to be well.  So the truth of the matter is…sometimes breast is not best.

But my trials with breastfeeding were minimal. 

The second night in the hospital, before my milk came in, a newborn Charlie nursed and nursed and nursed.  And I knew this was how it was supposed to be.  This was the process of bringing the milk in and it would not last forever.  But at 10 p.m. after I had been nursing for two hours with no break, the day after I had experienced the incredible, athletic feat of birthing a baby, I was exhausted, so I called in the nurse.

“I’ve been nursing him for two hours now.  Can I stop?  Do I really have to keep doing this?”

“Well, that’s just what you have to do,” she smiled through her cruel teeth.

BIG tears rolled down my cheeks, “Do you mean I just have to keep nursing him FOREVER?”

A more veteran nurse walked in at that moment and she took him to the nursery and told me to get some sleep.  She was an angel and I loved her.

It did get better, but it continued to be hard.  Charlie had thrush on his tongue for months.  So,  desperate not to contract the thrush myself, which my doctor warned would feel like razor blades in my nipples, I had to rub Nystatin on my nipples every time he fed.

Then there was the breastfeeding/potty training combo.  As soon as Charlie would latch on, Finny would poop his underwear or pee in the living room.

And of course, any time we went out for the evening, I could never come home and just fall into bed.  I would watch jealously as David would head up the stairs and I would pull out the pump and the bottles and milk myself in front of the TV.

All that being said, nursing my boys is one of the best things I’ve ever done.  Truly.  Because when you’re nursing, you have to sit down, you have to slow down, you have to stop and really enjoy your baby.  And it’s a kind of joy for which adjectives can do no justice.  When it works, it’s soft, tender and perfect.  Like licking a grape sherbet ice cream cone while listening to the crescendo of “O Holy Night” or cuddling up beneath a thick fleece blanket in your jammies watching the ending of It’s a Wonderful Life. 

It’s all those good, wonderful feelings, only better, and without the cacaphony.

But today, it’s over.  We’ve been doing the slow wean for a while now and for the past month or so, I’ve just been nursing Charlie first thing in the morning.  Today, while he’s at my mom and dad’s I tried to pump and got only drops, so the jig is up.

Which means next weekend when I want to sleep in past 5:30 a.m., I can because David can roll out of bed and fix a bottle just as easily as I can.

But it also means, at eleven and a half months old, that my baby is getting older.  That my second baby is weaned.  And it’s sad.  And it’s lovely.  Both.