A Story of Weaning

I should begin this entire entry with the disclaimer that I am only on the verge of the weaning process and feel in no hurry at the moment. I read in LLL (that’s La Leche League, for those who don’t know) that a great way to wean is “don’t offer, don’t refuse.” I like that a lot, but am beginning to think that if I want to stop nursing my son THIS DECADE, before my nipples look like the ones in the picture –(and YES YA’LL, that baby is seriously nursing from the adjacent side, the corresponding nipple dangling unused above its tortured sister)-, I may have to get more aggressive about it. My one year old and I are not catching on very fast to the concept of weaning, or more accurately, to the application of the concept. The concept I believe we both understand, exemplified by his recent aggressive, demanding displays of nearly tearing the buttons off my shirt and yanking lower and lower on my neckline until that wonderful coveted darker flesh of an areola appears. It’s about this time that his hungry grunting and frustrated shrieking cease while he frantically brushes his lips back and forth only to find, HORROR OF ALL HORRORS, that he’s bitten into a mouth full of fabric. Did I describe the scene in the background yet? How about the room full of people or the grocery store or just about anywhere that I happened to be holding him?

One of the factors contributing to our inability to adhere to a successful weaning schedule is the random midnight feedings. (Yes: MY ONE YEAR OLD). I know, I know; some of you are saying, “so?” while others disapprovingly shake their heads that I don’t have that the hard-nosed mom gene which would stiffen rather than soften at the sound of his waking cry. Let me say four words to you head-shakers: I could care less. Ok, back to my story. The other night I awoke to his cry at about 2:30 AM, an unusually early time, so I slept-walked into his room, banged my toe on his fisher-price lawn mower, and crept up to his crib. I always fish around for him, as he lays there, eyes still closed, whining louder and louder. He must be as awake as I am. So we finally find each others’ hands, flailing out in the air above him, and not unlike movies where the fearless leader heroically lifts his dangling weaker partner from off of the cliff edge, I find the strength in me to boost him onto my shoulder. The trek back to my room is often a perilous journey: me, stumbling like an idiot through a maze of toys and doorways, my main concern to not drop or smash my son into the frames, while he deliriously rides my hip, bouncing a bit with a loud “BUH!” or two to keep tune with his bounce. In the dream-state I was in, I lay this “buh”-ing creature on the bed and crawl up next to him. As my fingers fumble for the buttons of my danged flannel pajamas, (which I could curse at times like this for being so darn prolonging), my son is literally rolling back and forth on his back, mouthing the air, calling out loudly, “bah! duh! buh!”. I must say, I actually laughed out loud at him, because my minds eye was playing this all out for me like some Animal Planet scene. Ok, stay with me: The large majestic eagle lands at the edge of its nest, ready to regurgitate its food for the incessantly chirping downy chick to feed. This chick is helpless, “ACK! ACK!” it demands as it nearly falls out of the nest jumping in enthusiasm. And so was my child, my little baby bird, chirping next to me as I struggled with that top.

More recently, as in this week, he has been doing much better. Despite his teething and his cold, he is nursing an average of 2-3 times a day, which, if you ask me (and who else would you ask?), is right on schedule.