My daughter has officially decided she’s done with breastfeeding.
“Quitting isn’t cool,” I told her, but she seemed completely unfazed, as she scrambled off to her play mat and tossed her little bird toy at me. This was the third night in a row.
At 34 years old, this was the first time I’d experienced someone running from my breast. I’d be lying if I said my pride wasn’t a little bruised. Sure, they’re not perfect, but they’re not that bad, right?
Wasn’t this weaning thing supposed to be my decision? But her message was undeniably clear: she was ready to move on. If she was done, then so was I. Seventeen months of breastfeeding is quite a stretch. And in that moment, my first thought was:
FREEDOM!!!
The dependence was over! My body was mine again! I could leave the house for an entire Saturday without a care in the world. I gleefully called back to my husband, “She’s your responsibility for the day! Good luck!” Mooohooohahahahaha! Goodbye nursing tops and awkward day-drinking excuses!
But just to be sure—when babies decide they’re finished breastfeeding, they really mean it, right? No chance of a comeback? Just checking, you know, for a friend…
I rarely mentioned our breastfeeding journey in conversation because, honestly, I don’t think it matters how we choose to feed our children. As long as they’re fed, we’re winning. I was simply doing—no, I mean I was simply doing what worked for us. But when people asked (and they often did), I was upfront: yes, we were still breastfeeding.
This usually elicited one of two responses: “Oh wow, good for you! That’s amazing!” or “Oh my god, WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?” followed by, “You poor thing, when are you going to stop?” Well, guess what? The time has come: she’s STOPPED!
And honestly, I can’t find any reason to feel upset about this. That would be just plain crazy!
I never had a concrete timeline for when we would stop breastfeeding—a fact that left some people bewildered. Initially, I aimed for six months, which seemed wildly ambitious, especially during those early days of intense discomfort. I thought only the clinically insane or saints could manage that long. But as I learned, people were simply doing what worked for them.
It’s true what they say: “It’s always darkest before the dawn” could have been written for my nipples. Once I got past the initial agony, breastfeeding became easy, almost too easy, to the point where I started to feel a little lazy about it.
I’m absolutely fine with this ending. Seventeen months! I should throw myself a celebration! Yes, I’m genuinely happy. I have my body back!
But couldn’t she have given me a heads up so I could more fully appreciate our last feeding? Maybe let me make the call and shed a tear or two in protest?
But I am so thrilled! And don’t even get me started on the pumping nightmare. About a year ago, I finally stashed the pump away for good because, let’s be honest, pumping is just a hassle. The rhythmic “WEE-wer, WEE-wer” sound from the machine was hardly the soundtrack of romance. Since I was her primary caregiver, I realized I was only pumping so that my husband or family could occasionally feed her. It was nice, but also kind of silly to isolate myself with a machine when I could just nurse her. After I ditched the pump, I felt like I had cheated somehow. When people asked, “How are you still breastfeeding?” my response was really, “How could I not?”
This transition has been a breeze! She hasn’t shown any signs of distress or even attempted to nurse again. Not a single tear. Well, not from her, at least. Who else is crying? Not me! I’m overjoyed with how smoothly this has gone. Can I borrow a tissue? Did I mention how relieved I am?
She’s never been an emotional drinker, either. From the start, she treated nursing like a business deal: in for milk, out to play. No lingering, no reaching for me when she got hurt. Her detached approach made it easier for me to feel less attached myself. I was merely fulfilling my end of our arrangement.
And now that arrangement has come to an end. She’s made it clear she won’t be renewing her milk subscription. It’s right there in the fine print!
Interestingly, I recently found out I’m pregnant. I’ve heard that this can change the taste of a mother’s milk, which might explain why she’s ready to give it up. Perhaps this is her way of protesting the new addition. But none of that matters; what’s important is that she made this choice.
And I am COMPLETELY fine with it! Seriously, thank you for your concern. I know you didn’t ask, but I just thought I’d let you know. I’m doing great! What’s that? Oh, it’s just my mascara—totally smudged for no reason. Must be the pregnancy hormones. Yes, I read somewhere that happens, so it must be true.
Over the past few nights, we’ve established a new routine: bath, book, bed. She’s a big girl now! Her decision to stop nursing signals her growth, independence, and ability to make her own choices. And I’m absolutely okay with it!
Did I mention that already?
I’m so grateful for this new chapter, I could just lie here and cry! But these are tears of joy, I swear. This is best for both of us. But let’s face it: breaking up is never easy.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the emotional journey of weaning from breastfeeding after 17 months. The writer shares her mixed feelings of pride, joy, and a hint of sadness, all while celebrating her daughter’s newfound independence. Despite the challenges and societal pressures surrounding breastfeeding, she embraces the transition and looks forward to the next chapter in their lives together.
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