It is time to move on and to give my husband more time with Matthew. My husband was much more involved with Claire's infancy. He used to feed her bottles, bathe her, put her to bed and get her if she woke up in the night. Matthew, on the other hand, has been my child most of his life: I get him in morning, feed him during the day, comfort him when he falls, bathe him, and put him to bed at night. He in turn, does not want me out of his sight. I love this, but it can be stifling.
I miss my daughter. I want to be the one to cuddle with her in the rocking chair and read her a bedtime story. Or pretend we're fish while splashing in the bath. I want to button her sweater in the morning, walk hand-in-hand to the park, and run beside her as she learns to pedal a bike.
It is time to stop breastfeeding. I know this, but I cry as I write this. I'm closing the door on Matthew's infancy -- the crazy, sleep-deprived days of round-the-clock feedings. He was so delicate, his skin translucent, his tiny fingers clutching my breast as he fed. When he grew bigger, he would tap my shoulder when he wanted to breastfeed, or lift my shirt up if he was impatient. He made loud sucking sounds as he fed, his mouth curling at the corner in a smile whenever I looked at him.
I watch him now as he plays. He squats in front of a wooden puzzle, the knob of a puzzle piece clutched in his chubby hand. He looks like a schoolboy: furrowed brow, all focus and concentration. One by one he puts the pieces in, sometimes getting it right the first time, other times after four tries. I clap when the last piece is placed. He looks over momentarily and smiles, and then dumps the puzzle upside down. He begins the task again, earnestly placing the pieces in the puzzle.
He is no longer a baby. He hasn't been for a long time. He's a toddler. A boy. My beautiful boy.
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