The Beginning of the End

This is the face I expect to greet me today when I get home from work:

Why, you may ask?


Because today for the first time IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, I will not nurse him on demand (which he always demands right away when I get home).  In fact, I will not nurse him at all until it's bedtime.

Yes, today is Operation Wean Judah: Day One. Or perhaps more to the point, as the spouse likes to point out, it’s Operation Wean Mommy. Because I’m the one who is going to be traumatized and guilt-ridden about it all. The plan is to drop a feeding every 4 days until we are all done.

There are good reasons to wean Judah (which I won’t get into now), but a large part of me, the largest part actually, just really really really doesn’t want to do it.  I know we had a good run.  Heck, he's 20 months.  (But then I keep telling myself that in the majority of cultures and for the majority of history, children weren't weaned until 3 or 4.  20 months seems so YOUNG to wean.  My baby's only 1.  1!)

And I love our special little bond. I love cuddling him (and that’s the only time this wiggly worm will sit still in my lap for more than 2 seconds). I love being able to provide the ultimate source of comfort and security for him. I love the idea that he’s getting micro-nutrients, probiotic enzymes, and all kinds of immunological benefits from this ‘secret sauce’ that science is just now discovering, and may never fully uncover because it’s just that awesome.

But mostly, it’s the bond. The closeness. The attachment.

Judah has been a champion nurser from day 1, latching perfectly, never biting (except for a few playful times, but it wasn’t too bad and he stopped right away), and doing his business pretty efficiently.

I can’t believe, in my new-mom daze and exhaustion, I was going to wean him at just 2 months old! At that point, I had barely slept and the idea of feeding him (and thus being awake) every 3 hours for months and months sounded like hell. Throw in the beginnings of very bad reflux fussiness and I was *this close* to throwing in the towel. Thankfully his reflux problems subsided around 4 months and since then it’s been one, smooth, long, wonderful ride on the nursing train.  (Okay, there have been bumps along the way, but really they were nothing compared to how wonderful it's been.  Or maybe I just have Stokholm Syndrome, nursing edition.)

But now that ride is coming to an end.  Sigh.

I’ve done my research and I’m hoping that Judah’s strong sense of empathy will make the “band-aid” method work like a charm. The method is to simply stick some band-aids on the boobs and tell your kid that they are sick, or broken, or “owie.” Judah actually knows the word “bandage” from the time he split his head on an iron grate and had to wear one for 3 days straight.

And if that doesn’t work, I will bribe him with gummy bears and lollipops.

And if that doesn’t work, I’m giving him the previously, un-introduced delights of chocolate and rocky-road icecream.

And if that doesn’t work, I will use the “lemon method” wherein you squeeze a lemon on your boob and thereby demonstrate that the milk has gone “bad”.

And if that doesn’t work, I will make the spouse handle him for the rest of the day while I go and get a pedicure (and/or sob with guilt and sadness by myself in the car).

So if I post some pics of a nice pedicure tomorrow…you’ll know it was bad.

Really really bad.