On this night, I nursed my little girl for what will be the last time. I had been contemplating this moment for quite a while, but I just wasn’t ready. Excuses flooded my mind: “We have a trip coming up, and I want to nurse her on the plane,” or “She still has a couple of teeth to come in,” or “Well, you nursed her earlier today, so you can’t stop now.” But this morning, I made up my mind: today was the day. It was time to let go.
Our journey together hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing. From the moment I learned I was expecting, I sensed that she would be a handful. My hopes for a peaceful, natural birth were dashed when she stubbornly refused to turn, leading to a scheduled C-section that kept me recovering in bed for four long weeks, where all I could do was nurse. From our very first night in the hospital, she cried—often and loudly. Despite being by my side for those initial three months, I felt like all we did was cry together.
I struggled with postpartum depression, which can be overwhelming when you’re supposed to feel unconditional love for your child. I loved her, but it felt more like, “You’re here, and I wanted you, so I suppose I should care for you.” My son was just 25 months old when she arrived, and I found myself resenting her for taking time away from him. I thought a two-year age difference would foster a close bond, but I didn’t realize how much I would miss him.
Whether it was part of her nature or a reflection of my own struggles, she always seemed discontent. Unless she was in my arms, she would wail endlessly. Car rides were a nightmare, and she rejected the stroller, the bouncy chair, and even my attempts to let others hold her. Even when I did hold her, the crying persisted. Thus, I nursed her—not just out of love, but often out of frustration. It was my way of soothing her, my way of coping in those turbulent days.
For 754 days, we navigated this challenging path together. People say time flies, but when you break it down into numbers, it feels like an eternity. It’s as if time stood still during those days.
Tonight, as she clung to me, eager to nurse and drift off to sleep, I gently told her, “This is the last time for boobie, sweetheart. After tonight, we’re done, OK?” She looked up at me and simply replied, “OK” before starting to nurse.
As I turned off the light, tears filled my eyes. This truly was the end of an era. There might be future children to nurse, but this was the last time I would hold her this way. Nursing had become our special bond, a connection in the midst of chaos. Somehow, we’ve emerged from those dark woods, and I can hardly believe how far we’ve come. I look at her now, and my heart swells with love. I hug her tightly, knowing that this little girl, who once brought me to my lowest point, has also opened my heart in ways I never imagined possible. The guilt of not being the perfect mom during her early years lingers, but I am determined to be her biggest supporter moving forward.
She seems to understand that this is our final nursing session. Instead of drifting off like she usually does, she explores my breast with her hands, gazing into my eyes. This was our ritual, our comfort amidst the struggles. I know that in the days ahead, she may cry and plead for “boobie,” but I’ll be steadfast. I’ll hold her close and look into her beautiful blue eyes, whispering, “It’s okay, Mommy loves you so much. We don’t need boobie anymore; we’re doing just fine.” And truly, we are.
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Summary
This heartfelt narrative captures the bittersweet experience of nursing a child for the last time. It reflects on the struggles and joys of motherhood, the deep emotional connection formed through nursing, and the transition towards a new phase of parenting. The author acknowledges the challenges faced during the early days with postpartum depression while celebrating the growth in their relationship. As they prepare to say goodbye to this intimate bonding experience, a sense of hope and determination to be a better mother shines through.