This past week something happened that had me drafting texts to people in my life — close friends, my own mother — and then erasing them. Doubting whether I wanted to share this news, second-guessing how it would be received. Perhaps it felt too big and too insignificant all-at-once? (And maybe this is the struggle of writing anything about motherhood.)
On Wednesday evening, I breastfed my first child for the last time. It was the final day of a string of 844 days doing the same thing again and again and again. At first, luchando with a proper latch and feeding at one-hour intervals. Later, in growing familiarity and ease. Eventually, accompanied by words: “te-ta,” “tetita,” “quiero tetita, por favor”…
In April I found out I was pregnant with our second child. I wasn’t sure how much longer nursing would last. Early June brought Lydia’s birthday and I googled whether the WHO gave out certificates for making it to two years of breastfeeding (their official recommendation). For the record, they don’t.
I spent the equivalent of a master’s degree on this ‘project.’ I don’t have a thesis to show for it. Just — just! — the oh-so-slow process of watching a person grow. Of spindly newborn legs turning plump with time, and then those same telltale mid-thigh rolls disappearing almost completely with toddlerhood. (I noticed last week that there was just a trace of them left.)
I was told before she was born that I would spend lots of time watching shows or reading while breastfeeding but most of what I did was watch her, read her. I’ve never given that kind of presence to anything, anyone before her. And I’ve never been so forced to be with my own thoughts for periods of time that it often felt outside of my control. Sometimes I felt trapped — I just wanted to be free of this responsibility. Sometimes, I yielded and prayed. Often big, wide-open prayers for the world. For mercy. For Palestine.
Who would understand what it means to wean a child? It’s an absurd question because of course there are countless mothers who have been here, who are here even in these same days. But there is something singular about this experience. It is mine and Lydia’s and no one else’s.
(All grief must be that way, and all joy, too.)
It’s a strange sadness; it doesn’t really make sense. I’m less than three months away from starting this breastfeeding process all over again. You would think I’d welcome the break. I do. But that’s only a fraction of the story. The whole story is so much more colourful. It’s nothing that can be distilled into one sentiment. It’s held all of the ambivalence of motherhood itself: euphoria and exasperation happily coexisting.
But how did it go, that last time? It was a holiday here in Santa Cruz. She had just had a late afternoon bath. I sat cross-legged on the living room floor on my yoga mat. She came to me and sat in my lap, wet hair, skin to skin. Not unlike those earliest of days when everything was new and tender and fresh. She wriggled and hummed to herself. She playfully slapped me (no.) and gently stroked my skin. She reached up and wiped my tears. Eventually I encouraged her to say “chau, tetita” and “gracias, tetita,” which she did. Then, she wandered a few meters away and pretended to take photos of me, bringing an invisible camera to her eye and making clicking sounds. (Andrew had just taken a few photos of us.) I laughed at the naked photographer and smiled for the camera. She came back to my lap one more time and then, that was it. Chau tetita.
I wouldn’t actually say she’s weaned yet. It’s one thing to stop breastfeeding, it’s another thing entirely (I imagine) to stop asking, to truly let it go. She keeps telling me that she just got back from daycare (even when it’s not the case), her consistent time recently to tomar la tetita. Last night in bed she started crying when I told her “No” and then I cried, too. I don’t know how much she understands, I don’t know how much I do, but we share this grief. It’s ours.
When Lydia is fully and truly weaned, I imagine this psalm, Psalm 131, that I’ve know for many years will become something new to me. What is a weaned child like with her mother? And what is that mother like with her child?
That, for me, remains to be seen.
my heart is not proud, O LORD, my eyes are not haughty I do not concern myself with great matters or things too wonderful for me but I have stilled and quieted my soul like a weaned child with its mother like a weaned child is my soul within me o people of God, put your hope in the Lord, both now and forevermore