I’m part of a freaky club full of women who breastfeed their adult children.
Only kidding, she’s 18 months and she can’t even talk yet, but as far as a large segment of the population is concerned, same difference.
Considering my previous records of one feed and three months, I never in my wildest dreams though I would be saying this but EIGHTEEN MONTHS AND GOING STRONG!!!!
Do I feel like I could conquer the world?
Why yes I do.
Miss Olive only nurses in the evening and when she’s cross, which is both understandable and extremely uncomfortable because her razor sharp baby teeth are not wielded with care when her mind is on other things.
The flip side is that now she’s on three squares a day, I can safely say that nursing is something she chooses to do, rather than something she needs to do, and that makes it even more special.
Why did nobody tell me about the special?!
Each evening I pat my chest and ask her if she wants milk. She nods back violently, repeating “YAH! YAH!” until I get up and she can escort me to collect the feeder.
After leading me by the finger on a tour of the lounge to wave goodnight to her minions we head to bed, and she scurries across the mattress before flopping theatrically onto the pillows and pulling the duvet up to her chin.
Then the grin, and more “YAH”s until I climb in beside her to nurse and she begins the slow descent into sleep with her arms tightly wrapped around me.
After our five day nursing strike I take each feed as a blessing, and more so these days where every feed could be our last.
It won’t be the nursing that I miss, it will be all the emotions that come with it and the wordless statements that I make to her: you’re safe, you’re nourished, you’re loved.
And the sound of a baby hedgehog snuffling by my side.