741 Days

I think I weaned Harper tonight. And I can’t believe it.

She forgot to ask for her beloved doodie doo last night, what with all the dancing and drinking of Robby Bubble-brand champange for the alcohol impared. So I thought that this is as good of a time as any to finally get her off of her last boob snack. I’ve only been nursing her for five to 10 minutes before bed since October, but every time I halfheartedly told her that they were empty, she would cry and plead for her dooodeeeeedooo booo hooo hooo. And, true to the name Björn has coined for me – Butterheart – I couldn’t bear denying the poor kid her boob time.

I knew that just because she forgot last night didn’t mean that she would forget tonight, so I had to go for the jugular: I had to pray upon my child’s compassion. Before taking her to bed, I used two Band-Aids to indicate that my poor tatas were out of servce. When she asked for doodee doo, I said that I couldn’t because they hurt.

“See?” she asked. So I showed.

“Ouchie ouchie. One. Two. See?”

Other than wanting to observe my taped-up nipples every three minutes (which gave me the feeling she was trying to figure out if I was lying to her or not), there was no protesting, no tears. Nothing. We read a book in bed, then she climbed onto my chest and made me sing that damn Who song from How The Grinch Stole Christmas until she fell asleep.

And that was it. And suddenly it made me very, very sad. There is no doubt about it: I have been so very sick of nursing her for a while now, but I wanted her to be the one to decide when it was time to wean. And now, here I am – the impossible having been made possible – and I am getting all sentimental about it.

But now I can maybe wear normal-lady bras for a change.