The Pip-Pop has weaned himself. One night last week when I offered to nurse him at bedtime he said, ‘Hot!’ and carefully pulled down the lace of my bra with his fat fist. ‘Hot’ which means both hot, and I don’t like it, or I don’t want it. The next night he just pushed me away. The third night (I know, I know!), he bit me. Perhaps it is me he has weaned. Weaned from the pleasure of holding him against me, of gazing down lovingly at his head. Though, truthfully, feeding him was never wholly a pleasure, never without worry in those months before solids when he lost weight, never entirely comfortable as it was in the end with the others, never without the knowledge that I needed to hurry on to the next thing. But to stop feeding him is to stop feeding forever. I’m not good at endings.
Rewind to the Biscuit in those first minutes after her birth – her head almost buried in the fullness of my breast. Those first soft pulls.
A night later, the Pip-Pop wakes at midnight. I offer water. I offer cuddles. He tugs at my top until I bring him into our bed & nurse him. I gaze down, and let it go.
Narcissus ‘Bridal Crown’ by the front door. They smell amazing.