Weaning
I soothe myself with his need, for I hate to wean him. We nurse now 2-3 times a day perhaps 4 on my days off. Time stops around us for a moment, scenes held in a snowy globe. Hold back! Stop! I come close to panic, unprepared for change, but it's too late. He sweeps on in his life. I cannot gather back one moment, only marvel at what comes next.
There was I time when I realized my child had gained enough weight so that he couldn't possibly fit inside of me again. Just last night as we were cuddling the thought crossed my mind again. Measuring his length and width, his density, I breathed out a sigh of relief, with a tinge of regret. As though he were foldable, like a paper origami swan! Letting him go is also a process of bending the bow. Fortunately, consolations are built into every stage of a baby's development, for with the loss of infant traits a new and fascinating talent of being emerges. He nurses less primarily because he wants to talk to me. I can see it, looking into his eyes. He forgets his hunger and the old comfort pales because he wants to tell me something and to hear his own voice in his ears. He has begun to loop sounds into long complicated vowels that hold meaning. Words get him things. He knows it. He has power over his desire. In a wholly new way I thrill at seeing him take charge of what he wants. Paper. Ball. What ever is in the garbage.
