Weaned

We did it, Succotash!

We nursed in the morning on March 10, before you left to go to school and I left to go to Houston for five days. A long trip. And since then we've largely stopped. I had one duct that was holding on - WHAT ABOUT THE BABY? it kept saying, and so I have had to pump a time or two to keep it calm. (Because I am neurotic, that milk is in the freezer. In case of what? The end of days?) You could tell, and sometimes rummaged under my shirt after it. "But there's milk in there!" you objected. We had some bumps, and some tears. 

A couple of days ago my stubborn duct was sore, and it was the morning, and you asked if you could nurse. It had been several weeks. "Okay," I said. "But this will be the very last time."

"Okay," you said.

Up went the shirt. You took a long sniff, like a connoisseur of fine wine testing the nose of a favorite vintage, and you settled in. But you were only there for a minute or two. Maybe there wasn't much left. Maybe you realized you were done. Almost an instant later you were up on your elbows wanting to play Jim Hawkins and start our day.

I am proud of us. Three and a half years! You turned three and a half last weekend, though we didn't really mark the occasion, busy as we were with Passover (22 people!) and Easter (church! Egg hunt birthday party! Bunny suit!), and the general pleasures of living in New England in spring. Yesterday you asked to see if you had grown. I am proud of you for being proud of yourself, for weathering this change. I am proud of myself for lasting this long - too long, it could be argued - and for keeping you healthy through a global pandemic, the anxiety of which hasn't fully left me even as the national emergency has slowly been called off. 

But now we are weaned. Your babyhood is over. You are, at long last, my little boy.