Tigerboy is very nearly 6 months old. He’s sitting up well by himself, negotiating things into his mouth and doing his very best to steal food off my plate. All signs of readiness for weaning. A couple of nights ago when we had (home made) cauliflower cheese I mushed a little bit and let him taste it – he spat it out very quickly, but I think it must have set the cogs whirring in his brain. Today I sat him in Smallest’s booster chair and handed him a lump of banana complete with skin, and this time there was no spitting out.
I was impressed with how quickly he peeled the skin off the lump. Then he couldn’t hold it, so I held it for him and he sucked and chomped bits off with evident enjoyment.
I was thrilled he was happy with it. And filled with an overwhelming sadness.
Tigerboy is my last baby. I know that, objectively. I’ve been pregnant 7 times, given birth four times, I’m nearly 42, my baby days are done. And now my last baby is moving away from his absolute dependence on me – my path to redundancy has started. Yes, it’s wonderful, and incredible and joyful, but there’s an element of grief in there for me.
When you’re pregnant with a baby, it’s just you and them. You carry them within, feel them moving, cherish them as they grow and they are a part of you. Once they are born other people can hold them, comfort them, maybe feed them – but as I’ve exclusively breastfed, their nourishment has come from my body for the first several months. And that’s a special feeling – while I’ve had problems with breastfeeding before, apart from the hospital induced panic, there has been no difficulty or pain with Tigerboy at all. Breastfeeding has been utterly natural, if a bit round the clock, and I’ve loved that relationship with him.
I can feel proud that he’s ready to take that next step, but I can also feel sad that he’s ready to move away from me a little. And I can also dread the complications that weaning brings – when they are breastfeeding it’s always on tap, always the right temperature, always right there. You don’t have to pack anything special, no concern about what they’ll like or not like, no difficulties with choking, or allergies, things to eat out of or with, places to sit.
And I’m never going to have another little person depend on me as utterly as my children have done so far. Never going to be as essential to another being’s life. I know that we’ve got months if not years of breastfeeding ahead of us yet, but the relationship is changing. I’m becoming a supplement instead of a requirement. I’m no longer the centre of his world, he’s going to gradually start to move further away from me from now on.
Oh, I know this will take time. I know that I’m still in many ways *the* figure in all my children’s lives. But I think I’m still allowed that little moment of yes, grief, aren’t I?
Please tell me there’s someone out there who understands.
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