Expect the Unexpected

From the time I first learned that I was expecting, I have had to learn to expect the unexpected in parenting. Even my own emotional reactions often surprise me. Thursday night, I breastfed Lily for the very last time. After thirteen months of close bonding, in part through regular feedings (she refused a bottle from early on), I prepared to go through several tissues that night. After all, I cried the night that I fed Emma for the last time. Lily is the baby of the family, so I thought that there would be even more tears, more nostalgia. I had warm feelings about feeding my sweet Lily, being able to hold her close and help her grow throughout her first year of life. I took video of her just before her final feeding, had Conant take some photos of her eating for our private files. I mentally prepared for the emotional fallout. I did let her eat as long as she wanted, even when she repeatedly fell asleep. I did give her extra kisses, stroke her hair lovingly, think back to how tiny she was the first time I fed her. I held her close, prayed for her, thought of how much I love her. Then, when it was over, I had a startling realization. My cheeks were Sahara desert dry, my eyes not even close to shedding a single drop. I did feel a strong tug on my heart for Lily and the sadness she might feel when she realized that life as she knew it was different, but I also felt relief. Between pregnancies and breastfeeding, my body has nourished my children for forty-six months. That’s forty-six months of being extremely conscious of what I put in my body, forty-six months of being hypersensitive that the things I do could somehow harm my children, forty-six months of analyzing foods, beverages, cleaners I use, medicines I take. Admittedly, I am my own worst critic and have probably been vigilant even beyond what is necessary, but I have worried nonetheless. And though I am beyond grateful to have had the chance to carry my children, to feed them, to care for them in any way possible, on that night, I felt relief. I felt relief for seemingly silly things like the chance to eat chocolate cake and not worry about the caffeine. I felt joy at the thought that I can go run errands or meet a friend for dinner and not have to rush back for a feeding. I felt contentment that I had made it to thirteen months with both girls, persevering through thrush for months on end, plugged ducts, mastitis that was worse than any flu I’ve experienced, hourly nighttime feedings in the early months, calls and visits to lactation consultants, a concerned hubby who repeatedly told me that he would have quit and I could, too. And, being a mother, I felt a bit of guilt for this joy, this relief. However, the guilt faded when Lily finally slept twelve and eleven hours straight the following two nights. It seems that, as life as she knew it changed, she decided that we didn’t need our middle of the night appointments. Even better, her affection for me has not dwindled at all even though the dairy is closed. As I write this post, I am enjoying my first glass of wine in a very long time, and I am enjoying it guilt free. I will always cherish the opportunity that I had to nourish my babies. If I had to do it all again, I would beg for the chance to be pregnant and breastfeed. But knowing that it is now a part of my mothering history makes me appreciate it in a new way, not wishing for it to continue, just being grateful that it was.