Weaning Season

At Lili's one-year check-up, our pediatrician mentioned that she (Lili, not our doctor) could start drinking whole milk. Something about fat...nerve padding...calcium...blah, blah, blah. After thirteen months of closing my office door for thrice daily pumping sessions, toting bags of expressed breast milk around in front of my now completely desensitized co-workers, and stacking bottles and pump attachments alongside plates, cups, and forks in the office kitchen drainer, I was more than ready to bid the Pump N' Style a fond farewell (by the by, let's contemplate what could have possibly been going through the minds of Medela executives when they came up with the name "Pump N' Style". What, exactly, could be considered stylish about standing at attention with plastic funnels attached to your breasts, praying that a member of the building's janitorial staff doesn't use their master key to burst through your office door for an emergency waste basket emptying session? Nothing, I say. Absolutely nothing.)

Rather than stopping cold turkey, though, I decreased my daily pumpings to two...and then to one...and next week to none. And while I'm certainly grateful for the added time during my work day, and will not miss hauling a mini cooler back and forth across town every day, I felt a certain...twinge...as I rummaged for that final milk bag and turned the pump motor off for the last time. Like toddling across her bedroom, the appearance of top teeth, and her tiny, tiny mullet, it's another subtle reminder that my little babe is no longer a little babe, and the instinctual, life-sustaining need she once had for her mommy is slowly fading. Unfortunately, there is no turkey cold enough to dull the edge of that particular razor. I take solace in the knowledge, however, that a milk carton can't read bedtime stories, or push a stroller around the lake, and (fingers crossed) is probably a pretty terrible cuddler (despite Lili's best efforts).