On Breastfeeding and the Ache of Endings
It almost passed me by like every other milestone of motherhood, over one hurdle and on to the next.
Like a lot of childhood endings, neither of us knew it was the last. I don’t know the day or the hour. Gah, why don’t I know the day or the hour?! Just like I don’t know the last time my toddler wore a 0-3 months sleepsuit or the last time I carried my 9 year old on my hip.
Some time in the last couple of weeks, I breastfed Asher for the very last time.
I’ve felt it slipping away for a couple of months now but every time I announced this is it, he would latch on like a baby piranha for a few days as if to prove a point. But this time, this is it.
You know, I didn’t breastfeed my first. 9 years ago, as a teenager, it crossed my mind for a split second–curiosity more than anything. It wasn’t the norm in my little world and so I did what my mother did, and what her mother did. But I always wondered.
As my world grew bigger, my wondering turned to longing. And as I got married and pregnant, I held it with open hands–if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But it worked. And on any other day I would be too embarrassed to tell you just how much it meant to me that it worked. But today I’m allowing myself to indulge in what it has been to me: a pure gift.
Through the gnarliest first year, breastfeeding saved us. Through major life uncertainties, it saved us. Through foggy days of lingering depression, it saved us. And just when I thought it was done saving us, through moments of rest and connection at the end of big toddlering days, somehow it saved us a little bit more.
Had it been 1 month or 21 months, it was all I hoped it would be. And a whole lot more. Bleeding nipples and half-hourly wake ups aside, it was the most magical hospitality I’ve ever had the privilege of showing another human.
I already miss it. The way he happily twiddled the stray strands of my hair with his fingers. The way his body, no matter how big it got, curled up perfectly in my lap. The way he would randomly unlatch, look up at me, smile, and then get straight back to business. The way he pointed his toes when he was nearly done. The stillness. The mutual contentment.
And while it’s a relief to have part of my body back, and I don’t regret how and when we stopped, I have to confess I think there will always be a tiny slither of me that craves it. In the same way I crave the sea when I feel suffocated. The way my husband needs a sausage roll when he’s sick. The way flowers always seek out the sun. The way our bodies beg for chunky soup in winter and silky sorbet in summer.
I know not everyone shares my positive relationship with breastfeeding. I know it is a complicated and nuanced topic. I know I can satisfy the craving for connection and physical closeness in a zillion other ways and over time I’ll probably forget what it even felt like (you should know I have now written myself into a puddle of tears), but today I’m letting myself feel the ache. The ache of passing time. The ache of growing up. The aching inability to give all my children, all of me, all at once. The ache of endings.
And I guess I’m just really stinking thankful. For the experience. For the surprising miracle of it all. For the blessing. And for another unexpected piece of grace in the story of motherhood that’s been written for me.
