The End of an Era

So it’s official.  On Super Bowl Sunday, my days of nursing PB were done. 

I kind of thought it would be liberating or something.  I thought that it would feel good to have someone else be able to feed PB once in a while.  That I would go back to having a bowl of ice cream once in a while and not have to worry about the dairy bothering the baby.  That I would be able to imbibe once in a while and not have to think about when to stop drinking so that I would be able to nurse.  I thought it would be a joyous occasion, a celebration of a year’s hard work.

But as I sat and gave PB his bottle of warmed cow’s milk, after realizing the fussing at each breast meant there was nothing more for baby to drink, I cried.  I sat in the glider in the nursery, by the dim light of his monitor and cried.

Hubby was sweet and supportive, reminding me that a year is a triumph and there is nothing to be disappointed about.  Telling me I could still have my quiet, special time with PB while giving him a bottle.  And I know all these things are true. 

But more than the expected feelings of sadness from a perceived ending of a bond that come with the end of nursing, there’s also these feelings that my baby is growing up.  Getting older.  There was a time not long ago when all that sustained him in the whole wide world was made by me.  Little by little, there was supplemented formula at daycare, then rice cereal, and pureed pears.  Now there’s turkey patties and whole wheat English muffins and chicken breasts.  He’s getting to be a big boy and that makes me a little sad too.  I told Hubby not to wish away the baby days, that they would feel long and hard, but would be brief.  And so they went.

I am done nursing this little baby.  I have done my part as a working mom to keep my baby nourished and comforted, knowing there is far more to nursing than nutrition.  I hope this investment I have made in this PB will be as important for him as it has been for me.