The last time I nursed Westley was Thursday, Halloween Eve Eve. It was only for five minutes, and just on one side. I doubt he even got much milk.
I looked at the clock, and then down at my little dude. "It's night-night time," I told him. "Time to go to Daddy."
Westley popped off, looked up at me with a drooly smile. "Mmm!"
I didn't know it was going to be the last time I nursed him. But the next night, Westley was extremely wound up well past bedtime, and I was anxious to get him to bed so I could start my workout. When he demanded to have another book read, I gave him a choice: book and night-night or nurse and night-night. He chose the book. The night after that, Rob and I were gone at bedtime. And the night after that, it seemed silly to nurse him when I hadn't nursed him in two nights.
So I guess this means I'm really weaning him. Or, rather, I have weaned him, since I don't plan to go back to breastfeeding now.
The thing is, the way I'm getting away with not nursing Westley in the evenings is by not being there. As in, not inside the house. I tell Westley goodnight while he and Rob are reading books, and then I go work out in the garage for a little while.
"How'd he do?" I ask when I've had enough of sweating.
"Fine," Rob says. "He cried for mama and milk, but he was fine once I got him his pacifier and his green blanket."
Huh.
I don't really hear anything else inside my head, because I don't know how I feel about this yet.
I really, truly thought I would never have to wean Westley. Which is not to say that I planned to breastfeed him until he was nine. I just hear often about children weaning themselves at nine months, a year, a year-and-a-half... As Westley's first birthday got close, I was prepared for him to let me know that he wasn't going to take his milk lying down any more. He started drinking more milk from sippy cups, but bedtime was still all about my boobs. Earlier this year, Westley was all-but-weaned (and I was anxious to have him weaned-for-real), but it was that once-before-bed token nursing that hung on. I kept hoping that he would forget about it. Or that he'd say, "No milk anymore. I'm good. See you in the morning, Mom!"
Right.
That is impossible for more than a couple of reasons, the most obvious (to me) of which is that Westley friggin' loves to nurse! Hence the sweet smiling and the yummy noises after he does it. Which completely breaks my heart, because it means that I have to be the one to say, "Nope, that's it. We're done."
Except that instead of saying that, I've been sneaking off to the garage. Like the toddler-weaning coward I am.
Last night, when I asked for the Westley report, Rob said, "Fine. He didn't even ask about mama or milk."
Ouch.
So there it is. It's over. After hating (and then loving) nursing, I'm going to miss it. My breasts haven't wised up to the change yet, which makes missing it particularly easy.
I was sure I would want to throw a party when I finally got to the point of not having to flash my living room every night. But now, thinking, I'm not going to nurse Westley any more, I just feel so...sad.
(And not quite empty.)
