My son lies beside me in bed, his pudgy wrestler leg hooked over my hip as he breastfeeds. He squirms, his hand trailing along my stomach. He finds my belly button and hooks his thumb in -- his favourite feeding position.
I watch him in the dim dawn light, his eyes closed as he suckles, his face rapt with the ecstasy of the first feed of the day. When he wakes up in the morning he grabs at me, frantic, frenzied with the need to feed, to drink, to be calmed.
His gulps slow down now, and become nibbles, and then he stops sucking. He is full. Scrambling into a sitting position, he surveys the bedroom. I feign sleep. He bends forward and pokes my closed eye. I don't move.
He leans closer and kisses me; I smile despite myself, and peek at him. He looks at me expectantly, and when I open both eyes he beams, his smile dimpling his cheeks, radiant with morning cheer. I clutch Matthew in a hug, and I feel the tears well in my eyes. This is the last time I will breastfeed my son.
I try to freeze the moment, remember the brushed softness of his flannel pajamas, the tickle of his hair on my arm, the warmth of his skin pressed against mine. Then I hear a thump and the pitter patter of running feet as my three year old daughter gets out of bed and runs down the hallway toward our room. I let go of Matthew and our family starts the day.
Matthew is old enough to be weaned, I tell myself as I pour my children cereal for breakfast. He's seventeen months old. I only breastfed my daughter Claire until she was six months old. At the time, I was trying to get pregnant again, and so I gave up breastfeeding to increase my fertility. We transitioned Claire from the breast to the bottle in a horrendous weekend full of hysteria, wails and tears -- from Claire and myself.
With Matthew, it has been different. He drank from a bottle as well as from the breast, so I could leave him with others while I shopped, wrote, or escaped for a long walk. There were no timelines. He was to be our last child. Breastfeeding also seemed easier the second time around -- and more enjoyable.
So he's had a good run at it. Longer than most. He'll drink all his milk now from a sippy cup; I'll give him a bottle if he really needs to replace the comfort of suckling. Not that I can replace this -- the intimacy of feeding my child, his body curled into mine, nourishing him and loving him in the same act.
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