Since I've been so vocal about my mixed emotions revolving around the whole weaning process, I thought I'd blog about it. That way, when he is 18, I can go back and read All Things Oliver and really
torture myself reminisce.
Long story short: when we got home in January, he was still feeding 4 times a day. Taking my time, I removed feedings until we were down to one. Gradually. Like every 2-3 weeks. Afternoon, then mid-morning, then evening...goodbye special time with my baby. Not to sound melodramatic, of course.
The morning feeding has been the one I've been hanging onto. (Or is it on to? Gah, weird grammar rules.) He'd seem to be ready to go without, but then he'd get sick and I wanted him to have The Good Stuff. Or we'd be on the road and he'd wake up in a hotel and the only thing that would get him back to sleep was The Good Stuff.
The struggle is real, as they say.
Alas, we've been home this week and will be next, so I thought, "now's the time, mama." Or as McKauley Culkin said in Home Alone, "This is it. Don't get scared now." (Disregard the gun.)
We decided Trent would get up with the boy, so he and I wouldn't be tempted. Also, I'D GET TO SLEEP IN. For two days, he did great! (I did have to pump once due to the engorgement...ahhh, biology.)
Then Trent got sick and needed to rest and so we backtracked. I got up and tried to pretend nursing is not what we do first thing in the morning, but Oliver pointed to the chair and pulled on my shirt and screamed and so WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!?
But this morning, he did not. (Insert crying emoji.) We looked out the window, pointed at birds, talked about the sky, and then he pointed downstairs. Have we rounded third? Maybe.
For the record, had he fussed today, I would've caved.
If you need me, I'll be here...rejoicing in being able to nurse so long.
And also cleaning up Cheerios 14 times a day. Seriously...there are so many.