A Weaning Story: A Tale Of Mixed Emotions

On July 19, I nursed my daughter for the last time. I didn’t know it would be the last time, since I was hoping she would take the lead on weaning and I had no actual cut-off date in mind. Had I known it was going to be the last time, I would have planned it differently. The reality was that we were in an Econo Lodge or AmericInn or something in some miscellaneous corner of Minnesota. I was perched on the end of the bed holding a toddler smelling vaguely of hotel grade chlorine, thinking only briefly about what a wonderful little being she is and how grateful I am to have a breast-based relationship with her before my thoughts were diverted to more pressing issues such as Will my husband we smart enough to stay out of the room with the dogs long enough for her to fall asleep? And will he take their jangly collars off first? Is there pizza leftover? How many hours of our roadtrip can be filled with episodes of Max and Ruby before I’m officially frying her not-yet-two-year-old brain? Also…what’s that smell? Hotels are gross.

A week or so later, when my girl had suddenly and shockingly still not asked for milky since that night, I told my husband how sad it made me that the setting of our last nursing session together was so cheap. And possibly unhygienic.

To which he said: What would have better? Candlelight? An oversized armchair covered in white linens? Soft music?

To which I said: Yes.

In the months before little V broke off our nursing relationship, I wondered about how weaning would actually happen. Sometimes I hoped it never would. I loved nursing. Memories of the painful beginnings of breastfeeding were washed away by the second-nature process we had developed. The frustration of being the only food source for a baby who, during some growth spurts, became famished at 30 minute intervals around the clock was dulled by the indescribable warmth that passed through me when she gazed up at me with a milky little grin. I couldn’t conceive of a world where she and I had a relationship that didn’t have breastfeeding as a part of it, and therefore I didn’t feel eager for it to end. Just in case there was no other way.

At other times, I longed for her to suddenly abandon my breasts. Once she was clearly beyond the phase where breast milk was her main source of nutrition, there were days when I begged her (out loud, because I’m highly logical) to find comfort from other sources/people/liquids. I wanted to feel, for the first time since becoming pregnant in February 2010, that my body was ONLY my own and that no one else was affected by my choices. I wanted to take cold medicine. To choose supplements without consulting a doctor, or at least kellymom, before swallowing them down. To have a glass of wine and let that glass of wine turn into a bottle of wine plus a shot of tequila without having to consider whether that decision would turn my breast milk into an adult beverage. I couldn’t conceive of a world where she and I had a relationship that didn’t have breastfeeding as a part of it, and therefore I felt anxious for it to end. To see if there was any other way.

When the mythical act of weaning actually occurred, I did not fall into a depression nor did I throw a celebration. I am, by nature, a very conflicted person. Consequently, I felt conflicted.

I was sad. I was sad that my baby was, truly, no longer a baby. That she was taking steps towards independence. That I had nursed her for the very last time, an act we had done thousands of times, that made us both feel so good, that kept us physically close together for 20 months and 9 days. I felt sad that this could be the last time I ever nursed, in the event that I don’t have any more children. Nursing was an act that was personal for V and I, but is an act that I love in general for the power it gives us as women and mothers.

I was happy. That she actually weaned herself, as I had heard would and could happen. That we had such a long, successful relationship with nursing. That it played such a role in our bonding. That we were now free to explore other ways of bonding, and that other people would be able to play a bigger role in comforting her. That I had some sort of freedom that I didn’t feel I had while we were still nursing. Nursing was an act that was personal for V and I, but made me uneasy at times for the way it disproportionately affects women physically and psychologically.

After months of being completely enamoured of my chest, our daughter stopped nursing in what seemed like a rather abrupt manner. For a woman that likes loves plans and enjoys advanced notice and Googles the ends of movies before watching them, this caught me a bit unprepared. Even with the abundance of mixed emotions (see above) to choose from, I hardly knew how to feel. So I just…felt fine. And avoided thinking about it when at all possible.

Yesterday, in a fit of angry panic when I told her no you cannot run out into traffic, my child climbed into my arms, stuck her hand down my shirt, and softly whined ”Milky.” Her sad little cartoon character voice begged and her tiny dimple-knuckle hands clung and I didn’t quite know what to say. I told her milky was all gone. That we could cuddle. That I loved her. She didn’t let go for a few minutes, but that seemed to be comfort enough. I felt so joyful realizing my long time wish for her to find comfort in other ways had been fulfilled. I felt pure bliss realizing the bond we’d formed over nursing still had some lingering shadows in her memory.

Then I had a drink.

What Does A Feminist Mother Look Like

These questions come from one of my favorite blogs, blue milk.

• How would you describe your feminism in one sentence? When did you become a feminist? Was it before or after you became a mother? In one sentence I’d say my feminism is: constantly evolving and ever more encompassing. I don’t know if I ever consciously ‘became’ a feminist, I always felt sensitive to injustice, inequality and the special importance of powerful female figures. When I was a teenager I finally applied the term ‘feminist’ to myself. By the time I had my child ‘feminist’ would be the second adjective I would use to describe myself besides ‘human.’
• What has surprised you most about motherhood? It surprises me all the time how it is both so intuitive and so very confusing. I have feelings of real, true confidence in my instincts followed by sheer doubt over my decisions or priorities, often within the same 10-minute period.
• How has your feminism changed over time? What is the impact of motherhood on your feminism? My realization that my feminism does not have to be complete or perfectly wrapped up like a mission statement was hands-down the most important change I’ve ever made. I had this idea that I couldn’t share my perspective or give my opinion until I was 100% sure that I knew my position would never change/was correct/would be accepted by other feminists. Motherhood provided me that reality check by putting me face-to-face with the constantly evolving nature of life and knowledge. I am totally winging it when it comes to parenting, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion or feel confident or discuss my experiences and feelings. I apply that same principle to my evolving feminism and try to go easy on myself when I realize my own inconsistencies or change my point-of-view.
• What makes your mothering feminist? How does your approach differ from a non-feminist mother’s? How does feminism impact upon your parenting? In my opinion my mothering is feminist and differs from the mothering of a non-feminist because I am not only recognizing the inequity between genders but actively fighting against it with the choices I make for my child. My parenting is affected by this approach by sometimes being an inconvenience, to me, my partner, my kid, or those around me when I refuse to participate or accept certain norms as a part of our lives. Disney Princess: no thanks. Complimenting my daughter on how beautiful/pretty/cute she is while complimenting her male playmate on how funny/tough/strong he is?: not ok. I’ve had friends say “I hope I have a child of the same gender so I don’t have to buy new things” or “I get so upset when someone things my boy is a girl/girl is a boy” or “Why would a mother do x/y/z” and I can’t help but challenge them a little.
• Do you ever feel compromised as a feminist mother? Do you ever feel you’ve failed as a feminist mother? Sometimes I feel compromised when people in our lives undermine my attempts to avoid exposing my daughter to certain language/images/influences…I have the feeling they are doing it to make a point while looking at me and thinking ‘silly woman.’
• Has identifying as a feminist mother ever been difficult? Why? We spent 8 months of my daughters first 16 months living in Japan (and will be returning there soon), and identifying as a feminist mother was a challenge for me there. I was surrounded by other mothers who were incredibly supportive but also very much comfortable in gender roles more ‘traditional’ than what I consider modern or equal. They marveled at the egalitarian dynamic between my husband and I, and my husband was lightly teased by his Japanese teammates/friends when he occasionally declined invitations to their frequent boys-only I’ll-come-home-when-I-want-to outings. I felt a bit isolated in my philosophy towards motherhood/parenting and the language barrier made a meaningful conversation about the differences practically impossible.
• Motherhood involves sacrifice, how do you reconcile that with being a feminist? There are times when I find this idea particularly challenging to my feminism, especially when I find myself focusing on the sacrifices that I have made that my husband has not (specifically breastfeeding and what that meant for the physical proximity I kept to my child). However, I try to focus on the big picture and realize while there are some particular sacrifices I’ve made for motherhood (because of my status as ‘the mother), many of the sacrifices we make are for family, for love, for comfort. Making sacrifices is a part of life, and I have chosen to make motherhood part of my life. Does this mean that I think the choices mothers make aren’t often more forced, loaded with meaning, or influenced by policy/societal norms? No. But I also like to put things into perspective and remind myself that the sacrifices I make for motherhood pale in comparison to those many women are making, feminist or not.
• If you have a partner, how does your partner feel about your feminist motherhood? What is the impact of your feminism on your partner? I don’t know how he feels, because I don’t let him speak. Just kidding. He feels proud of my beliefs as a feminist mother, he feels challenged…in a good way. I know my influence plus raising a female child in a world not always friendly to women has opened his eyes to some of his past behavior and to the behavior of men around us. I know, however, at times he feels that I don’t know how to ‘pick my battles’ and feels that sometimes I am dissecting every.little.thing. making a conversation a bit difficult. I believe my feminism impacts him more than some other male partners of feminists because he is a professional athlete and spends his days in an environment that is often steeped in sexism, involves a fair bit of accepted homophobia and is fueled by male stereotypes.
• If you’re an attachment parenting mother, what challenges if any does this pose for your feminism and how have you resolved them? I’m not an attachment parent by title, we don’t follow any one method in our parenting. I did, however, breastfeed for 20 months 9 days, still practice babywearing at 21 months and can completely understand the logic of families who want to co-sleep, wait until children are older until they leave them for longer periods, etc. My complicated but deeply loving relationship with breastfeeding as an experience has led me to have some really conflicting thoughts about this kind of attachment/committment to my child that I could not make (in the same exact way) if I were a man. At times it felt both extremely empowering/powerful and painfully limiting. Have I resolved those feelings? No. Do I live with them as they are and consider ways to resolve them for myself or others in the future during moments when I’m not totally consumed by the rest of life? Usually.
• Do you feel feminism has failed mothers and if so how? I wouldn’t say ‘feminism’ has failed mothers, feminism is merely a philosophy that people adopt to help them navigate through. It’s not static, it’s not complete, it’s not enough to prop up women or mothers. Society is failing women. Politicians are failing women. Women are a part of that bigger picture, feminism is part of the solution. Personally, what do you think feminism has given mothers? Feminism has given me the impetus to ask questions. About my perspective. About my role. About what I expect from my partner, from my community and from myself. About what is right for my daughter. About what I will and will not accept. To sometimes have those questions answered in a way that makes me angry. Or sad. Feminism via the internet has also given me the sense of community and connectedness to other mothers with a similar viewpoint who I may not find in my immediate physical proximity.

 

This Won’t Make The Cover Of TIME Magazine

So obviously, almost nine months after writing this, I’m still breastfeeding. If this somehow bothers you (trust me, it bothers some people), get over it.

People who know me in real life heard me rant and rave when that TIME magazine cover came out to accompany their somewhat interesting but not very comprehensive story on attachment parenting. I didn’t blog about it because so many other people did. (click here for an interesting round-up of some of that writing) And mostly I was just too disappointed that a discussion about a parenting technique in general was dragged into such a silly non-analysis of breastfeeding {in a space and/or after the allotted time allowed by the boob police} and little more ever came of it. Sigh.

But, for the record, this is what breastfeeding looks like. When my best friend and I decided to do a photo shoot with our kids, a few aggressive hugs (her son really loves my daugther…and the feeling is mutual but the means of expressing it has not yet been agreed upon) and an hour creeping dangerously close to nap time led to a dual nursing session. And this is what it looks like. Except that I am usually not in such forgiving light. Thanks to the wonderful local photographer Samantha Elizabeth for the flattering angles.

And if you were wondering how the rest of the shoot went…

STILL Breastfeeding

I had this dream the other night, I woke up in a cold sweat when it was over. I guess that makes it a nightmare, really.

I had been selected to go on a mission to space (something I never would have applied for, by the way) and it was a really huge honor. I was going to be away for 6 days. Everyone was really excited, but as I was suiting up in my astronaut gear an hour before the launch I realized that being away from my baby that long meant I would be finished breastfeeding because in this dream the assumption was that during this time my supply would dry up. I started panicking, I hadn’t prepared, hadn’t pumped bottles for her while I was away, hadn’t packed a pump for the space mission to maintain my milk supply. I was about to blast off to space and I was freaking out because I had to stop breastfeeding. I told the launch team I needed to see a doctor, because I thought maybe they could give me some kind of medicine to maintain my supply while I was orbiting the Earth. They brought in Dr. Oz, naturally, and he said ‘I guess what I don’t get is, why do you need to keep breastfeeding? She is almost a year old anyway.’ I was flustered and not able to tell him to just f&^k off and mind his own business, so instead I just started crying and saying ‘I didn’t know the last time I fed her would be the last time, I didn’t stroke her hair or kiss her cheek or look at her smiling up at me.’ And he just shrugged. And I cried harder. A$$hole.

I woke up really upset, and a little confused. What did this dream mean? Obviously any mother who has an enjoyable breastfeeding experience will feel some sadness when it ends, and I suspect that mothers who have an unenjoyable breastfeeding experience have similar feelings. But my experience is ongoing, my baby is still breastfed, we are both still enjoying the arrangement. Why this anxiety provoking nightmare?