Unless we’re blessed with a surprise baby someday, sometime this week, I’ll nurse my last baby for the last time.
It’s a bittersweet milestone, one heavily laden in emotions.
Memories of the sheer frustration of early nursing sessions where I cried my eyes out because he wouldn’t latch and stay awake, his little body fragile and unfamiliar to me … to a morning like this morning, where I can tell when my milk has let down by how his suckling changes — from frantic suckles to even, nutritive draws while he tucks his legs up to his belly and buries his face deep into the curve of my chest.
We’ve fallen into a nice rhythm … and it pains me to know it’s me whose making the decision to stop.