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“Eighteen months. That’s my cutoff. If she’s not weaned by eighteen months, I’m done,” I exclaimed to my husband in frustration. Our sixteen-month-old had woken me for the third time that night wanting to breastfeed, and I felt like I might just fade away from exhaustion. She was teething, and the only thing that seemed to soothe her was nursing. I was SO DONE.
Elena is a pandemic baby, leading to an intense attachment that often feels overwhelming. She spent her entire first year at home, rarely stepping outside. While I treasure every moment we shared, I believe this has made her journey toward independence a bit tougher. She’s glued to me around the clock, nursing for much longer than either of her older siblings did.
Both of my boys weaned around fifteen months, gradually reducing to once a day before that. I only nursed them to sleep, and that experience was sweet and tender. Their weaning was bittersweet; I felt proud of their growth, yet it felt like a piece of their infancy vanished when they first slept without “boobies.” They woke up as bigger boys, fully embracing their toddler years.
Elena has prolonged this process so much that I’m pretty sure I’ll only feel relief when it’s over. She’s nearly nineteen months old now, and in a development that surprises no parents familiar with nursing, I didn’t cut her off at eighteen months.
Why? It’s complicated. I intended to start limiting her access when she turned sixteen months, hoping to be done by eighteen months, but she looked so small and sweet. One more month couldn’t hurt, right? Then she started cutting molars, and it felt cruel to wean her while she was in pain. After those little teeth came through, she broke her leg. I didn’t want to take away her only comfort during her injury.
Once the cast came off, I planned to work on slowing down Boob Corp, but then RSV hit our household. My poor girl was so miserable, requiring an ER visit, steroids, and breathing treatments. What kind of monster could deny their helpless baby, who lay in a hospital bed whimpering, “Boobie, Mama”? Not this monster.
So here we are, a month past my self-imposed “limit,” with no end in sight. My child nurses countless times daily, including overnight, and I’m apparently just going with it. She doesn’t use a pacifier or cling to a blanket or toy. “Boobies” are her only comfort right now, and she truly needs me.
Since I’m going with it, I can’t honestly say I’m not okay with it. For the most part, I am. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t feel frustrated. Just last night, I nursed her on both sides, and she peacefully drifted off to sleep… until I gently unlatched her, as I do every night, and this time, she completely lost it. She woke up in a panic, screaming, “Boobie!” And when I say “screaming,” I mean shrieking at a pitch I didn’t know I could hear. It was a sound that could only be described as “verging on dog whistle.” Our dogs ran outside to escape her meltdown, and I calmly handed her over to her father and went to take a bath. Let him figure it out for once.
I love her more than anything, but I feel so touched out. One of my kids is always on me, and nursing amplifies that. When my breasts were full and heavy with milk, I had little sensation in my nipples. Breastfeeding felt like nothing. Now that they’re less full, I can feel her tiny teeth grazing my skin the entire time. It doesn’t hurt, but sometimes, the sensation drives me up the wall. I’ve thought about searching for “flesh-colored silicone patches” just to see if such a thing exists. I could convince her that my nipples fell off from overuse.
The only reason I haven’t looked is that I fear they might exist, and I can’t imagine explaining to my husband why I’ve chosen to go without nipples rather than continue to nourish our child. (Truthfully, I think he would understand; he’s one of the good ones.)
I dream of sleeping through the night, but it hasn’t happened yet. She wakes me at least two or three times, needing just a minute or two of nursing to settle back down. Somehow, it always happens right when I finally fall into a deep sleep. I’m beyond exhausted.
But forcing her to wean isn’t in me—not yet. The World Health Organization recommends nursing up to age two or beyond, but even without that, all I have to do is look at her. She’s still my little baby. All day, she’s in constant motion, expressing her every feeling with big, emotional displays. She gets into mischief, smiling at me through her wild, curly hair that always seems to escape from her pigtails. When she’s finally snug in her pajamas, we rock and breastfeed, her long lashes resting on her chubby cheeks as her eyes flutter shut. She is the realization of my dreams—a little rainbow girl completing our family after a season of loss and pain.
I’m definitely ready for the day she decides she’s done breastfeeding (and I totally understand why some parents choose to end this toddler-nursing phase before their milk-obsessed kids make the decision themselves). However, for now, I’ll tackle the challenges of breastfeeding that drive me bonkers for a little while longer. Until she turns two. That’s my limit. If she’s not weaned by then, I’ll cut her off… maybe.
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Summary:
Navigating the complexities of breastfeeding a toddler can be exhausting and overwhelming, especially when that little one seems attached like a “boob barnacle.” The experience varies greatly from child to child, as seen in Jessica’s story with her daughter Elena, who continues to nurse at nearly nineteen months. Despite the challenges, Jessica embraces the bond and comfort that breastfeeding brings, even as she dreams of a full night’s sleep.