Prayer for Weaning

Iver turning one made me pretty emotional!  It's amazing to see this little, spirited human grow up out of infancy to toddlerhood. And while there were many days that I fantasized about the day that I'd hang up the breast pump and switch to cow's milk, now that he's one year old and it might be medically acceptable do that (per AAP; WHO encourages nursing until at least two), I haven't really started weaning him yet (except attempting a bit at night). I'd like him to lead the process and, of course, I have to be ready too. Right now, I'm not ready, even though I am looking forward to having more free hours to my days when I don't have to worry about milk production, delivery, and organization. While I don't think I'm going to be one of those really extended breast-feeders and I already plan to cut down on pumping starting in January, nursing has gone so smoothly and has been so good for bonding that I can see continuing into this second year. I also know that there is a real phenomenon about post-nursing-depression. I recently came across this sweet and touching poem by Rachel Wrenn, which had me in tears thinking of "the day," which I have put off, for now.

A Prayer for the End of Nursing 

O Lord, you have searched me
and known me.
You knew the moment when that sweet baby skin
first touched my chest
when that sweet little mouth
gaped like a fish
when that shocking moment of connection was made:
Mother. Child. One.
You knew.


You knew the struggles, and the pain.
The mostly sleepless nights
The one- (two-) (three-) (three-thirty-) a.m. wake-up calls.
The disconcerting, disorientating, barely-functioning
delirium/delusion/hallucination/exasperation/rage…
And still
the sweet baby skin and the gaping little mouth
the instant peace and the murmuring suckling.
You knew.



You knew the feeling of miracle
that awesome moment of realization
that exactly what they need
is exactly what I have in me
and everything that is me
(milk, body, heart, arms)
is given freely to sustain and nurture their life
—and then that awe-full moment of recognition
of deeper appreciation
for the words “this is my body,
given for you.”
This is my body, given for them.
You knew.



You knew the rhythms and the hours
of nursing and pumping
of sleeping and snuggling
of crying and impatience and the frantic, shaky, waving tiny hands
as the shirt gets caught
or the store clerk goes too slow
or a hundred other impediments leap up
between the present moment and MILKRIGHTNOW!
You knew.



You knew the feeling of panic
the counting of bags in the freezer
of hours between pumpings
of ounces in the bottle
of months/weeks/days
until this all could be DONE
secretly knowing how hard it would be
for it all to end.
You knew.



You knew the feeling of gratitude
for those rosy lips, parted in sleep
for that instant smile when we’ve been apart
for the feeling of expansion
of my heart
of my life
of yet another way I will live out my vocation as your child
by stewarding and tending and nurturing my own child;
the awesomeness of being part of your Creation—
quite literally.
You knew.



You knew the twinge
the first twinge
that first moment when they start to pull away
when the solids that were rejected
or tasted and then used as hair gel
become interesting, delicious, good
and the sessions of sleepy suckling snuggling
start to lessen.
You knew.


And you know now
The feeling of wrenching
of tearing
of separateness
because it all is done.
The sadness, the mourning, the loss
interwoven with the relief, the joy, the pride
the cords of reassurance and the embroidery of gratitude
that we made it this far in the breastfeeding marathon
that I gave them this much
that this experience of oneness, of miracle, of struggle
of sleepy suckling snuggling
will live on in my body
as they once lived in my body:
nourished, cherished, cradled
in a safe place of sweet memory and thanksgiving
You know.


And so:
give me comfort
give me peace
give me reassurance
that though this type of sustenance is through
my hands, my body, my heart, my spirit will still be needed
to feed
to quench
to tend
to care
for them.
Just as you do for me.
You knit me together in my mother’s womb:
knit my heart together now.
Amen.


Another great article (Tonight, I Cried in the Glider) by Colleen Nichols, said just how I've felt it:
"I’d be lying if I said the tears were aplenty not because I’m scared.

I’m not terrified of the formula [or whole cow's milk, in my case] or the judgmental moms or the pain of weaning, but I’m scared of the mom I’ll be without it. During this survival period (aka the first year), this has been my foolproof weapon with the ability to slay sleepless nights and teething pain and scary shots at the pediatrician. I feel as though I’m willingly laying it down and choosing to forge on, unarmed, into battle, and I’m unsure how I’ll, quite literally, survive.

I stifle a sob because I can’t help but wonder if this decision will make me replaceable. I know these are what my husband refers to as “crazy lady thoughts,” but they’re ones I can’t shake. Not tonight, anyway.

Maybe tomorrow the underutilized portion of my brain responsible for producing rational thoughts will kick into gear, and I’ll rest easy (okay, easier) because I’ll know that while this breastfeeding bond has been special, it’s not what makes me a mother. I’ll remind myself that every mother’s worth is found in her endless supply of selfless love and dedication, her ability to make any boo-boo better with a kiss and a hug, and her unyielding willingness to give her baby the best life possible. Tonight, I cried in the glider. But tomorrow, I’ll remind myself that as long as there is healthy food in his belly, the source doesn’t matter."