Nursing Anna

Nursing at Beechy Head, 2005

First: It's funny I was writing about how stunned I was about snow at the end of March, when it snowed (and REALLY snowed) just this past weekend, in the latter half of April.

But I have something else to come here and write about aside from complaining about weather.

I nursed tonight for the last time. The decision to complete nursing has been coming for a while. I didn’t set a date ahead of time, because I didn’t want to build up any stress about it. We’ve been weaning for a long time, and we were down to just that little one before a weekend nap, to help her get to sleep, and one before bed – a quick one with the lullaby. Nursing is no longer her most prized thing, though it was for years. So tonight, I don’t feel I’ve taken anything away from Anna. Instead, I feel that I have finished giving her an amazing gift—a little over three and a half years of breastfeeding.

Anna never asks for nursing now until it’s the bedtime routine, and it’s just as much a part of what we do as reading three stories, or singing her lullaby—the one I made up and have sung to her every night since she was not quite three months old. And on weekends when she’s home, she’s starting to give up her nap. So stopping nursing now means I will be taking out something from our evening ritual—I expect it will meet with as much resistance as taking out one of three stories, or not singing the lullaby. But those will continue. And I will continue giving her what she needs—my arms around her, my voice, my kisses, my devotion that has kept me with her every day of her life. I have never been away from Anna a whole day, and that is partly because of nursing—it has kept us close, and for that I am glad. We have started on a path of closeness that I hope will continue—but a path that must find its own different way as she grows older.

It’s amazing to me to look back on the past years and remember all the nursing moments—from the first time I nursed her outside at the park in Sooke centre, to nursing at Beechy Head, or the day we hiked alone to the coast trail along Park Heights trail and nursed at the sea, or nursing her to sleep on the banks of the Sooke River—to all those days spent quietly, tending to her needs, nursing on the comfy chenille couch and staring out the window at the canopy of cedars when we lived on Coppermine. Nursing her to sleep on our bed when she would sleep with us. Nursing on Christmas eve. Nursing to reunite after coming home from those long days when I started back working at UVic. Nursing on planes. Nursing in restaurants when she was a baby in a sling. Nursing to sooth a frustrated toddler. Nursing her through sicknesses. Nursing her to say good morning.

It’s amazing to me that I once lay in bed and wonder if my breasts would ever serve the purpose they were made for. And it’s even more amazing to me that we made it through those incredibly difficult first few weeks, when I cried and swore I wouldn’t be able to continue through the pain and problems we had. I remember saying that to Tim—when she was two weeks old. I look back on a diary I kept of our nursing difficulties through October and November of her first year and I am so proud of sticking it through. We nursed three years, 6 months, and 24 days.

It’s Earth Day today. It will be easy to remember our last time. It’s spring, despite the dodgy cold weather, and light was coming in around the edges of her curtains. I was wearing my new brown sweater, which just arrived today. I’ll think about tonight every time I put it on, now. I will remember the way she nearly fell asleep tonight in my arms just like when she was a baby, as we rocked in the chair that, amazingly, still holds us both.