I just nursed Ike for the last time. The nursing had been dwindling and after leaving for three nights without a pump two weeks ago, it was pretty much over. Tomorrow I leave again for the weekend to go to my sister’s bachelorette party. Which means, nursing will be really over, instead of pretty much over. Tonight was it.
It makes me teary, but Ike is getting so big. The little person who nursed against me this evening has a farmers tan and spiky hair. “He’ll be fine,” said Steve, and of course he will be. He won’t even notice. But I will.
It’s funny, when Ike was a newborn, I felt like babies and toddlers were completely separate species. “Do you remember when you were that little?” a Mom asked her toddler in the waiting room at Ike’s one month check-up. “Mommy does.” It seemed sort of inconceivable to me that her lurching toddler had ever been as tiny and perfect as Ike. (And, of course, I assumed her kid was three years old. Looking back, he was probably about 18 months.)
Still, I will miss the nursing. It was our thing, the thing that was just ours. I remember the nights with his baby belly snuggled against mine, the hours spent with him balanced on two stacked Boppies. (How many hours, if you added them all up? Weeks, certainly.) He was so good at it. I can’t really take credit. He just knew what he was supposed to do.
Most of all, I remember how, as he got older, he would stick his fingers in my mouth as he nursed. I would pretend to nibble his fingers and he would giggle, latched all the while.
I guess I still get to nibble his fingers.