The Womanly Art.

Warning: If you are a man, boy, and/or if the word breastfeeding makes you uncomfortable, feel free to skip this post.

Rachel and I are coming to the end of an era, so to speak. I haven't nursed her at all today. We are down to the "unless I'm feeling full, I won't feed her" stage. It's strange to think that we've made it this far. Was it really a year ago that I spent an entire night pumping and spoon-feeding her so that she wouldn't starve before we got into lactation the next morning? My mom said that she didn't even recognize me that first day that I realized that Rachel just wasn't getting it. Not a surprise, considering my eyes were small slits beneath the puffiness that four nights of sleep deprivation and crying had created. The trouble that Rachel caused me in those first few weeks kind of made me resent breastfeeding for a while. So much so, that I've been counting the days until I could hand over the reins to our good friends the cows to provide milk for my daughter.

Until now. With weaning comes a freedom that I haven't had much of in the last 4 1/2 years, between pregnancy and breastfeeding. But it's tainted with a bit of regret that Rachel will no longer need me. Sure, she'll still require diaper changes, floor play, bedtime stories, hugs and kisses, etc. Anyone can provide those. She will no longer need me.

No need to worry, though. I'll be over it in a week or so when I look down at her and think, "you are so grown up, I can't believe I was still nursing you just a week ago." Or when I'm snorkeling in Maui and rather than having her attached to me, she's thousands of miles away at Grandma and Grandpa's house. In fact, I'm feeling much better already...