Here's a story that a friend passed on to me. Get your tissues out. The
story will make you hug your nurslings even closer tonight or fondly
remember those who you have nursed & are now grown.

Weaning Annie By Ericka Lutz© 2000 When I was pregnant
and when I was a new mother, I scoffed at women who
nursed their babies past the date they could "ask for
it in words." I figured I'd breastfeed Annie for the
recommended year, and then I'd see. But with a
newborn, a year is infinity, and everything changes --
preconceived notions disappear and a first baby always
redefines reality. With breastfeeding, as with so many
aspects of parenting, I surprised myself. When the
first year ended, I continued to nurse my baby. And
continued. 
I became one of those women who nurse their babies
deep into toddlerhood. I nursed Annie because it was a
good thing for us, because I believed she should wean
herself (as is done in most cultures), because she was
my only baby. I nursed her when she could first ask
for it ("Urse! Urse!); I nursed her when she,
precociously, spoke in complete, grammatically-correct
sentences; I nursed her almost to age three. And then,
like all humans, she did wean, bringing forth a strong
reaction from me... 

Here are my notes from that weaning. Personal, raw,
still painful... I share them with you. 

She holds my nipple inside my shirt, she fumbles
against me, "I want to nurse," she whispers. 

"No honey, we're already in bed." 

"But I wanted to nurse before bedtime..." and she
cries: sorrow, release, understanding, loss. It's been
two days since she's nursed, each skipped feeding
negotiated, or forgotten. 

I hold her as she cries. Tucked against my body, warm
and soft. A couple of shuddery breaths, and she stops.


"I'm so proud of you. You're my big girl. You're such
a big girl, and I love you so much. You're doing such
a good job with your weaning." "I'm weaned," she says.


I stop, unwilling, myself, to commit. But after all,
that is what is happening. This is about her, not me. 

"Yes," I say. "I think you are." 

She stops, then. "But I am still Annie!" In the dark
her face beams, smiling, proud. I hold her close, her
hand still on my nipple. "Yes, you are still Annie,
you will always be Annie. Even when you are a grown
up. And I will always be your Mommy and I will always
love you very much." 

"Some grownups are named Annie." 

"Some grownups are named Annie, but they are not you.
You will always be you." 

Her body relaxes. Her lower lip trembles. "I'm very
happy and proud but I'm also a little sad," I tell
her. "It's a big thing, Annie, to be weaned. And I'm
so proud of my girl. But it's okay to feel sad, too." 

She is quiet, her breathing matches mine. "Let's go to
sleep now," and I hold her close. It takes a few
minutes for her to drop off to sleep and I hold her
close and watch her, and it is all, the entire world
in this moment. Nothing is more important in the world
than her body next to me and this closeness, and I am
so proud, of herself, and of myself, and of who we are
together. 

Two days later - midnight. My body is sad. Something
in me is dying. I look at my breasts, I touch them, I
try to reclaim them. Annie has cried today, several
times, wanting to nurse. The sorrow is despair. I
don't know how I'll mother without nursing. I hold
myself and cry - the tears splash. 

I go to her bed and sit next to her as she sleeps.
When this is over I will be only me again. Three years
nine months of us, my body being us. How will I be
when I am alone? 

I feel lonely tonight. I will never have this
closeness again. This is the closest I'll ever be to
another human being. 

I understand why women have more babies. I understand.
The sorrow wells in me. My breasts will be dead now.
Used, old. Useless. I want them to be, not as they
were before her, not as they have been these last
three years, but vital again in some other way. 

I will only be me. The link is being broken. I am so
sad tonight. It's over. 

Too much in six weeks. Day care. Her own room. Potty
training. Weaning. In two weeks she will be three.
Yesterday she sprained her foot and couldn't walk.
Today she howled, pre-verbal again, ripped toilet
paper to shreds, and crawled across the floor. So much
so fast, poor little girl. Have I pushed too much?
It's felt right - she's wanted all this - I want to
hold her tight and feel her against me. Too soon
she'll be gone, and I'll be left wanting, missing.
Sad. 

Writing this makes me feel drained. Hormones fly, make
me shuddery. I want to sleep and sleep and hold my
Annie tight forever. I want to honor this sorrow. When
this passes, my body and breasts will be my own
forever, and Annie and I will have passed through to
another phase. I'm so scared. I've loved this so much.
I'm so sad. Will she still love me? Will she still
need me? The nature of parenthood is to be kept
wanting - I believe. So far there has been nothing but
fulfillment. When does the pain begin? Does it begin
now? 

When the milk stops, when my body stops lactation, I
will be able to sum up the differences, changes,
damages. My body marks time. My child marks time.
Parenthood is about understanding time. 

On the fifth day I take a bath, give myself a facial,
and as the hot water cools I squeeze first one nipple
then the other. I taste the beads of yellow milk on my
finger tips. They taste like salt, they taste like
tears.

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