Nurse No More

Several weeks ago, I stopped nursing. No pumping, no special bras, no frozen bags in the freezer. It

feels very strange. Since I started at my job in January, I'd been pumping a couple times a day. In my office, while reading articles online or signing donation Thank You letters. In my car listening to an audio book. In the Trader Joe's parking lot. To the point where a friend suggested I keep track of all my bizarre pumping spots and write and illustrate a book. (This still may happen so no one is allowed to steal this idea! :) ) Point being, breastfeeding is no part-time job.

When Sullivan turned one, I was happy to offer him cow's milk and he was happy to take it. After a couple weeks of sporadic nursing and mutual frustration over having my chest beaten on (me) and my chest not responding fast enough (him), we decided to consciously uncouple. Even though it's been a month or so, I still have "phantom let-downs" when my hand rushes to my chest and I worry I'll soon have two wet spots on my shirt. The nightmare of putting Sullivan to bed with an unsatisfying nursing experience has vanished and he lets me lay him down after a book or two, with his Curious George tucked under his arm and his Rock-a-by Baby: Journey CD tinkling in the corner.

And now he is this walking, grunting toddler with a callus on his thumb from sucking. There are so many moments when he looks completely unlike himself. His face is leaning out from the walking and his eyes, although still bright and blue, are settling into his face with a seriousness I couldn't have predicted. His hair is still sparse, but long and full enough to stand out from the back of his head after a nap (although my mom admits to fluffing it up on purpose) and occasionally a Dennis-the-Menace curl will flair up on top. His elbows are growing pointier and his wrists aren't quite as doughy.

Then there's the personality. More definite than snow in Maine. He watches his brother carefully. When it's just the two of them, they play and laugh and co-exist (or at least that's what it sounds like from outside their bedroom door). When an adult is in the room, the competition begins. Sullivan brings over a book to read and once he's climbed up and settled into the nook of a lap with his warm head resting against a chest and his thumb in his mouth, suddenly all Henry wants in the world is to read that book from the other side of that lap. And Sullivan will have none of it. Regardless of the size of the lap. Or, vice versa, on a rare occasion when Henry is still next to me, Sullivan comes barreling from across a room with jealous arms raging, smacking his brother on the knee or toe or closest appendage. Like these mini-dictators don't live with four adults who adore them and shower them with unhealthy amounts of attention. :)

Notice the hair.

They will eat dinner together, though. Sullivan refuses "baby food," shoving our hands away with more confidence than any adult I've met. He is a big boy and he wants to be treated as such. We set up a Henry & Sullivan table in the dining room and Sullivan alerts us to the grumblings of his belly by pulling out a chair, hoisting himself up and slapping a hand on the wood table. If we aren't picking up what he's putting down, he'll look back and growl. He is not a fan of the speaking. He prefers to point and grunt. Occasionally, when we just aren't getting it, he'll throw out the first sound (Bb-bb = book, Dd dd = dog, etc). If our response is still inadequate, we are beyond frustrating and deserve the obscenely, dramatic meltdown that ensues. Crumbled face. Real tears. Paused breathing leading to the cry that pierces the center of your heart.

Until he sees someone eating a cracker/donut/anythinghedoesn'thaveinhishand and it's grunt and point again.

Here's the pointing - imagine the grunt.