my son, the weaner

Oh, this poor, neglected blog. The winter of 2013 will forever be remembered as The Great Nose-Wiping, I'm afraid. Alternate titles: Downton Crabby; The Winter of Our Discontent (With Rhinovirus). We are all sick all the time, and George has been afflicted with the worst of it, thanks in no small part, I'm sure, to his relatively recent weaning. Something I've been meaning to talk about here. Now -- while the boy coughs and watches Shaun the Sheep and the rest of the family buys logs at the farm store -- is as good a time as any. 

When I was pregnant with Zelda, put off breastfeeding by a serious case of the nursing heebie jeebies, I was determined to make it to George's second birthday before I cut him off. This turned out to be an unnecessary goal, since the return of my milk in the third trimester marked the end of my discomfort, and we happily resumed our normal nursing relationship. I look back on the final month of my pregnancy so fondly, remembering George's little toddler belly pressed up against his still in-utero sister, feeling her kick as he nursed to sleep. Hindsight being what it is, I can see that was the first real, tangible bonding they did, and I was so glad that my body did us all the solid of letting nursing happen pleasantly, as it had before. Our nursing relationship enabled him to experience my pregnancy from my side, not the opposing side to which most siblings are relegated, feeling mama's belly when invited and perhaps thinking about the time when they had unrestricted access, too. 

When, right after Zelda was born, we were spending a majority of our days in the house, often on the couch, nursing, George was free to nurse as he needed to, also, rather than being put off in favor of the new addition. We didn't suffer from any sibling rivalry until much later, and I attribute some of that to the fact that he didn't feel entirely usurped by the baby. At a time when my toolbox was running low, nursing was still my cure-all for sadness, a late nap, a fall, or need for reconnection. When your sleep is interrupted, you've just experienced a pretty big blood loss and you're trying to remember how to take care of a newborn, you don't necessarily have the resources available to think up creative new techniques for dealing with toddler behavior. Thanks, term breastfeeding, for keeping the peace when I didn't have the energy to respond as sensitively as I should, or playfully parent through adversity. 

I wish I had a better weaning story. Or, I guess I should say: I wish I had a more riveting weaning story. But, I don't. One day, George just stopped asking. He was 34 months old (nine months after his sister was born), and I waited a week before I brought it up. Are you all done with nummas? I asked him, and his response is forever etched into the mama part of my brain. The part that stores photographic memories of first steps and the first time he said I love you, unprompted. 

Nummas made me so happy, he said, but now they're for Zelda, and now they're called na-na. 

Na-na, what his sister has called mama's milk all her life. 

As simple as that, with no tears or strife. I never suggested he stop, and yet: he did, when his body told him it was time. When his heart told him he was ready. I didn't directly experience a terrible lot in the way of criticism about our term breastfeeding, but, nevertheless, ours is a story for the critics of child-led weaning. For those who argue that it creates whiny weirdos who suckle until pried off the boob sometime before middle school. For those who think it makes unhealthily dependent kids. For those who caution that weaning will be arduous when the child is old enough to articulate his need and the hurt that comes with refusal to meet that need. For those who think children are born manipulators. 

There are times, like now, in the midst of a slog through illness, when I am trying to find ways to boost my poor little guy's immune system as it struggles, and I wish breastmilk served as the cure-all it once did. There are times when my toolbox is as empty as it was when I was newly post-partum and I wish I could pull him close for a nurse instead of trying to comfort him with words or hugs that fall short. Our relationship is different now, and that change is natural, healthy, developmentally appropriate, but difficult all the same. When I'm lonely for the fat little baby in old pictures, I look at the goofy, gangly preschooler in front of me and am comforted that I didn't force him out of his sweet babyhood too soon. I'm glad that he shared a bit of that babyhood with his sister instead of being metaphorically dumped out of my lap in her favor.  

Though it was not always fun, I don't regret a single second of our term breastfeeding, and its effects are still making themselves known. When I find myself telling the doctor I'm not sure if George has ever been on antibiotics before. When I see him guilelessly look on at our friends' children as they nurse. When he nurtures his own sister or plays the role of caretaker with his toys. When he suggests that crying toddlers and children his own age might need some nummas. I'm proud of myself for those 34 months, and the 12 and a half I've spent breastfeeding Zelda. We've nursed on lawn furniture for sale in the middle of Target, at the zoo and at the park, in bed, all night, at strangers' houses and on walks, while I looked at the internet with one hand and he slept in my arms, for hours and hours and hours - an unquantifiable amount of time, of such enormous quality. I hope that, should he choose to have children, he carries these memories with him, whichever ones (if any) last to adulthood, and they influence the way he parents. Regardless of whether or not he winds up with kids of his own, I hope he remains a nurturer. And, I hope that this, among all my failings as a mother, serves as a reminder that I was -- and am -- in it for the long haul. 

n&ls: playmates

Sometime around February 1st, George will have a new full-time playmate. 

expect

I am always late in turning my calendar. A shame, and odd since I'm eager for the coming month spent with a fresh page of Nikki McClure's art, hanging in the kitchen, visible and inspirational at (almost) all times. As I was doling out avocado slices or picking up a thrown water cup for yet another rinse, I looked up and realized that the calendar still said February though it was March fourteenth. George and I had plans, like we do every month on the fourteenth: go to the mall. Use the newfangled photo booth that Mama wishes was still the real, old kind with the red or blue curtain but consoles herself by choosing a funny header appropriate to the past four weeks of development. "Oh, by the way: I'm awesome" for 13 months. "I freaking love you" for fourteen months, Valentine's Day. Our new tradition whose seed was planted years before when my roommates and I covered the grimy breakfast nook of our punkrock house in photo strips, demanded one from each houseguest that crossed our couch, every band that used our floor. 

I got distracted, didn't turn the calendar, but released George from his high chair and we got ready for the day. Went to the mall. Got our pictures, chose the "USA!" header for George's recent rallying cry/fist pumping victory dance. We stopped off at the drug store and came home. While George played on the floor with his puzzle, I took a pregnancy test that turned positive even as I willed it not to, glaring down at the defiant little plus sign that wussed out and only partially materialized. But it was enough. I didn't really need the confirmation, anyway. Even barely pregnant -- one day late -- my body gives itself away; we've been together for awhile, you know. 

Feeling a sudden burst of responsibility to my household, I remembered I'd left February's cheery cherry blossoms hanging in the kitchen. Turning the page, I felt a little silly. If Nikki McClure could be so prophetic, a complete stranger reassuring me with her meant-to-be-looked-at-for-31-days art, things would surely be okay. 

Of course, it was cruel of me to be anything but immediately delighted, and, it turns out, this pregnancy was easily jinxed. March changed to April and after three weeks of getting-used-to, what are we going to do? turning into we can do this, right?, the bleeding began. Though my midwife was optimistic and Nathan favored looking on the bright side (after all, this had also happened with George), I knew it just wasn't meant to be: an instinct confirmed by the poor ultrasound wand-wielding lady whose thankless job requires that she tell expectant women there is no sign of viability. The loss is sad, obviously, but this brief flirtation with another kid has opened my mind to the possibility of loving another one, doing this again, maybe even sooner than I'd envisioned when painstakingly organizing the timeline of my twenties and thirties. 

If and when we're afforded the luxury of adding to our family, I hope the person who joins us and George are lifelong lifelines to one another. Filling each other's gaps, two 24 hour open signs when everywhere else closes at 7pm and 5 on Sundays. People -- smart people -- have told me that a sibling will be one of our most valuable gifts to George, and the chance to parent another kid would be a gift to me, for sure. It's terrifying to replay the hapless nights we spent in George's beginning: the sleeplessness, the confusion and eventual giving up akin to the moment you realize you're drowning and start to enjoy the languorous kelp floating around you. But, you know? Sometimes, you're not drowning. I wasn't. Soon came the realization that I'd drifted back inland and could easily stand. It'll come again, after all that other stuff, which will (fingers crossed) be less like drowning and more like a too-adventurous swim. I'm lucky to've had the opportunity to work through those feelings before our next (next) shot at parenthood. To start with excitement, assured that we can hack it. Nobody deserves an "oh, shit" at their first sign of life, and for that motherly transgression, former fetus, I am truly sorry. 

I didn't plan on getting pregnant when I had a fifteen month old, but once I was, I quickly warmed to the idea -- the upsides, the pleasantness of the surprise, the potential -- which is, I think, my lesson in this bummer of a situation. The stranglehold I once had on PLANS has, in the past year and a half, loosened to a lazy handhold. I never thought I'd be the kind of person to let life happen to me, but here we are, Universe. Show me what you got.  

Have you dealt with an early miscarriage (lame, huh)? Did you get pregnant again quickly? How did it affect your family plans?