Weaned

It's official. My little boy is weaned off the breast.

It was difficult, more for me than for him. But I decided it was time when he started asking for it by name, "Nu-nu-nu-nurse?", hopefully, pleadingly...
He will be two years old in August.

It breaks my heart and fills my soul with warmth and love when I think about the time that has passed. And I finally understand a mother's heart and cry when I think of the losses many have suffered.

For the first time in my life, I've experienced panic attacks. I'm too sensible to have such things happen to me, I naively thought. But then, I am at work and wonder who is with my child...what is he doing...how is he eating... But those are the only questions I allow myself. Other questions lurk in the back of my mind. But those are unspeakable, those are what makes my heart leap into my throat, my breathe to quicken, my blood to race.

I spoke to a friend about this phenomenon. Her eyes crinkled into a warm smile and her calm voice bouyed with eleven years of child rearing in it's tone, reassured me. "That's called a panic-attack. You just have to not think about it. It'll drive you crazy."

For the first time in my life, I've also experienced heaven. At least this is the only way I can describe his little body's warmth against mine, the feel of his little hand in mine, the smell of his apple sweet breath, the soft powdery scent of the crown of his head, his radiant smile.

I am ridiculously proud. My Child can say his name! I shout this to the highest heavens because mere mortals cannot understand this miracle! My son can RUN! I beam foolishly as his strong chunky legs pump furiously in joyous motion. My little boy can FEED HIMSELF! I let the marinara sauce paint his cheeks as he greedily shoves spaghetti into his beautiful mouth, getting most of it on his shirt instead.

I want the world for him. I want him to never suffer needlessly. I want him to know love all his life.

I want to watch him grow.