The Weaning

Time Magazine was working hard to increase readership by choosing a supermodel nursing her enormous three year old son in a somewhat perverse photo meant to provoke and entice as its cover photo months ago.  The photo serves as an entree into an article on attachment parenting.  I would hope that all parents are in many ways attached to their children, working hard at forming bonds, considering the needs and development of the children in most decision-making.  But I know what really gets people's goat.  And that is the breastfeeding of big kids.  I was not turned off by the photo for the same reason that many others were.  I didn't think nursing a three year old was such a big deal but I did think it was a private, even secret act.  You see, I had been harboring such a secret.  I was still nursing my three year old.
Had I been chosen as TIME's cover model, I think the outrage/interest/press would have been much different.  Firstly, I am a 40-something, black woman, hardly a subject to get everyone's hair standing on end.  Images of brown people nursing their babies have been prevalent in National Geographic, and other anthropological stories for years, and have clearly been deemed not as enticing, intriguing, or seductive as a twenty-something, leggy blond with a big boy hanging from her breast. Secondly, I have a little girl, so the sexualizing of this act would be completely negated.   And there wouldn't be, as there has never been, a moment where my dear Virginie would be standing on a stool reaching up for my open breast.  She nursed at night as a way to fall asleep, to feel comforted and secure.  She did not nurse in the day time and certainly not in public.

For years living in Barbados, I would talk to people in different mommy groups about weaning the peanut.  So much so that one woman would always ask upon seeing me if "she was off yet."  I don't know why I offered it up, why I continued to engage in the dialogue as I cannot say with any conviction that I was actually trying that hard to get her off.  I talked to her doctor about putting aloe, which grew in abundance in our garden, on my nipples as a deterrent.  Apparently it is non-toxic but the taste is bitter and offensive which would leave my baby feeling disgusted by my breasts and force her to stop nursing.  Vinegar and soy sauce were also recommended.  I didn't want Virginie to find me disgusting and therefore turn from a true, tangible representation of nurturing.

I was offered "scientific" data by my landlord in Barbados that breastmilk actually wasn't so great for babies after all, with all the toxins and airborne particles and chemicals I'd breathed in and then passed on to the wee one.  I'd heard that her teeth would be misshapen if she ever fell asleep still nursing and that I would never get a good night's sleep until she stopped.  (This last one might be true as I cannot recall having a good night's sleep since 2005, before the first person arrived!)

Perhaps I was too sensitive to the feeling of neglect and the need for children to feel nurtured, cared for or maybe I just really felt she would move on when she was ready, but I just didn't push it. It was private, personal, and unless I mentioned it or someone spent the night, no one would ever have known.  I cannot say that it did not drive my husband insane, feeling like his boob time was being taken over by a toddler or fearing that somehow this attachment would make her, well, too attached.  But anyone who has met Virginie will attest to the fact that she pretty much runs her own and everyone else's show for that matter.  There was some concern that we couldn't ever go anywhere or be away for too long as she would only fall asleep with me, but we really hadn't gotten there yet.  To the leaving them with other people place, I mean.

There were plenty of people, mostly, well, only mothers, who discovered our little secret and wished me well, congratulated me, cheered me on for my choice.  I was often told that "I wish I could still nurse.  I wish I'd had the stamina.  It's so good for them."  And I felt good.  The shame and embarrassment subsiding and the pride of taking good care, being seen as a good mother for my "sacrifice" flushing my cheeks.

 I wasn't making a political choice, did not push my methods on anyone else, never lectured about how good the breast is for kids, or quoted statistics about the good health of kids who were nursed longer than one year.  I couldn't know if these statements were true and actually didn't care.  I know that Virginie was not ready to stop.  I was too tired to sit up with her for the days required to break her.  (I did actually try for one two-night period to just deny her and offer juice or water.  After the five hour stand off on the second night I figured she could nurse the tatas to my knees, I just could not spend another night like that.)

We would reach milestones--eighteen months, two years, two and a half years--and I would say, I am going to stop nursing this child.  She is fully conversant for goodness sake!  She will eat a slice of pizza and then ask for boo boo's. At her daycare center, the teachers convinced Virginie to give up the paci by telling her that she was now a big girl and no longer needed it.  I am grateful for their help, truly, but I'd hoped to let the paci placate her as I moved her off the boobs.  Once the paci was gone, it was just a question of willpower, and though I consider myself pretty strong, a warrior-mama even, I am no match for this thing.

And then came the antibiotics.  I needed to take them for an infection and nursed Virginie one night without even thinking.  She called me in the middle of the night and asked me "not to see her" which is a euphemism for "I am pooing, please give me some privacy."  It was 2 AM.  By 2:50, she had gone and been changed four more times.  I could not figure out what the heck was up with this child as she'd eaten as she did every day, had not complained of a stomachache or any pain or discomfort, but was here with diarrhea in the middle of the night.  I gave her some Pedialyte which, believe me, is nearly impossible to administer as it is miserably disgusting to drink, and some Cheerios and tucked her back into bed.  She finally went to sleep without another episode.  In the morning, my stomach felt as hers had all night and I remembered my reaction to antibiotics.  Ahhhh.  The upset stomach, pain, cramping, diarrhea.  Then the light went off.

Virginie, like most of us, hates having diarrhea and like most little ones, too much "going" gives a little rash which made her feel worse.  When she asked why she had to feel this way I told her that I feared it was Mommy's medicine making her feel badly.  She asked, "How am I getting Mommy's medicine?" to which I replied, "From Mommy's boo boo's."  And then I knew.  We were going to stop here.  I felt a real sadness for her and for myself.   We were close.  I had this one comfort to offer her that no one else could offer.  She could fall asleep, have her fears allayed when she was with Mommy.  Then I wondered, is she healthier because I have been nursing her? Am I throwing her out into germ-infested territory without her armor?  My heart broke.  But I knew that she would have to stop one day and this seemed like the perfect time.

The first nights were tough.  The poor soul just didn't know where to go, what to do to fall asleep.  We would snuggle, Lily, Virginie, and I, huddled together in their bed.  I would pet Virginie's cheek and she would hold my hair.  With my free hand, I would reach behind me and hug Lily.  Lily would tell Virginie, "You are a big girl.  You don't need boo boo's."  And we would not break the chain until they had fallen asleep. 

It has been nine days.  Early this morning, Virginie asked for boo boo's as she groggily rolled over.  (Yes, I was in the bed with them, having gotten up and out, up and out about three times, I finally decided to just stay put.)  I told her, "No, girl baby, you are a big girl.  Would you like your water?"  She took that, drank mightily and snuggled into my arms where she slept until Lily kissed us both awake.

The weaning is complete.  She won't go back and my body is reclaiming itself.  My breasts are tight and sore as the milk dries up.  When I am able I put cold compresses on them to give some relief.  I feel like Virginie has suddenly embraced going to the potty with gusto and has been empowered to be her own big girl.  I don't really know though.  It's my job to lead her through these moments and to keep her close until she can stand on her own and then stay nearby to steady her.  She might not take my milk, but everything else I have to give is hers.  I have two big girls now and Mommy's sense of self is returning as well.


(c) Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.