Tonight, I nursed my daughter for what I know is the final time. The decision has been a long time coming. I had contemplated this moment for a while, but I wasn’t quite ready. I found myself making excuses like, “We’re going on a trip soon, and I want to nurse her on the plane,” or “She still has a few teeth left to come in,” or “You already nursed her this morning, so you can’t stop now.” But this morning, I awoke with clarity: Today is the day.
Our journey hasn’t been smooth. Even before her birth, I sensed that she would present challenges. My plans for a peaceful, natural childbirth were upended when she stubbornly refused to turn, leading to an unexpected C-section and four weeks of recovery during which I could do little else but nurse. From our very first night in the hospital, she cried incessantly. Despite being close to me for the first three months, it felt like all we did was cry.
I struggled deeply with postpartum depression. It’s astonishing how something meant to be cherished can plunge you into such despair. I loved her, but it wasn’t the instinctual, nurturing love one expects. Instead, it was more like, “You’re here, and I wanted you, so I guess I’ll take care of you.” My son was just 25 months old when she was born, and I often resented her for taking my attention away from him. I had thought the two-year age gap would foster a close bond between them, but I didn’t realize how much I would miss him.
Whether it was her inherent disposition or a reflection of my own emotional state, she always seemed discontent. If not in my arms, she would wail endlessly. Car rides were a nightmare. The stroller was a no-go. She rejected the bouncy chair and the play mat, and even when held, she still cried. In response, I nursed. I nursed out of anger, frustration, and as a means to soothe her. It became the only way I could cope during those tumultuous days.
It’s been 754 days. While people often say that time flies, breaking it down like this feels misleading. Surely, time must have paused for us at some point, even if the calendar still reads 754 days.
Tonight, before bedtime, I spoke to her. As she clung to me, eager to latch on and drift off to sleep, I gently said, “This is the last night of nursing. After tonight, we won’t do this anymore, okay?” “Okay,” she responded, beginning to suckle.
Once the light was off, I succumbed to tears. This is it, I thought, the final time. There may be more children in my future to nurse, but this is the last time with her. There were days when nursing was the only connection I felt with her. But we’ve grown stronger together, and somehow, we found our way out of the darkness. I look at her now, and my heart swells with love. I embrace her tighter than anyone else I ever have. This little girl, who once brought me to my lowest point, has shown me a depth of love I never knew existed. I carry immense guilt for not being the best mother during those early years, but I am determined to make amends. I will always be her greatest supporter.
She senses this is the end. Unlike her usual routine of drifting off, she explores my breast with her hands, gazing up at me. Nursing has been our shared experience. I know that in the coming weeks, she might cry, plead, and tug at my shirt. Still, I’ll remain resolute. I’ll hold her close, looking into her beautiful blue eyes, and reassure her, “It’s okay, Mommy loves you so very much, my baby girl. We don’t need to nurse anymore; we’re good.” And we truly are.
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In summary, the journey of motherhood can be a blend of challenges and profound love, often leading to significant emotional struggles. The final moments of nursing signify a transition, both for mother and child, marking the end of one chapter and the promising beginning of another.
Keyphrase: final breastfeeding experience
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