“Eighteen months. That’s my cutoff. If she’s not weaned by then, I’m done,” I exclaimed in frustration to my partner. Our sixteen-month-old daughter had already woken me up for the third time that night for a feed, and I honestly felt like I might just fade away from sheer fatigue. She was teething, and nursing was the only thing that seemed to soothe her. I was completely over it.
Being a pandemic baby, Lily’s attachment to me is so strong that it often feels overwhelming. She spent her entire first year at home, rarely leaving our space. While I appreciate not missing a single moment, I believe this has made her journey toward independence a bit tougher. She’s glued to me 24/7, and her nursing habits have lasted far longer than those of her older siblings.
My two sons both weaned around fifteen months, gradually reducing to once a day before that. I nursed them to sleep, and the experience felt sweet and intimate. Their weaning was bittersweet; I felt proud of their growth, but it also felt like a chapter of their infancy closed when they spent their first night without nursing. They woke up as bigger boys, fully entrenched in their toddler years.
Lily, on the other hand, has stretched this out to the point where I’m certain I’ll only feel relief when it ends. Now nearing nineteen months, and despite my earlier intentions to cut her off at eighteen months, the reality is that I didn’t follow through.
Why, you ask? It’s complicated. I planned to start limiting her access when she hit sixteen months so we could wrap things up by eighteen, but she looked so small and sweet. One more month wouldn’t hurt, I thought. Then, she began cutting four molars all at once, making it seem cruel to wean her during that painful time. Just as those little teeth broke through, she ended up with a leg injury. How could I take away her only comfort while she was hurt?
When her cast was removed, I resolved to begin weaning, but then RSV made its way into our home. My poor little girl needed a trip to the ER, strong steroids, and breathing treatments. What kind of heartless parent would refuse their distressed child, who was crying out for “boobie, Mama”? Not me.
So here we are, a month past my self-imposed deadline with no end in sight. Lily nurses countless times throughout the day and night, and I’ve decided to embrace it for now. She doesn’t use a pacifier or cling to a blanket or toy. “Boobies” are her only source of comfort, and she needs me.
While I’m mostly okay with this, I do get frustrated. Just last night, I nursed her to sleep, and as I gently unlatched her, she lost it. She woke up screaming for “boobie” at a pitch that could make dogs howl. Our poor pups scrambled outside to escape her tantrum. I calmly handed her over to her dad and went to take a bath to unwind.
I love her dearly, but I often feel “touched out.” There’s always one of my children on me, and nursing amplifies that sensation. In the early days, my breasts were so full that I barely felt anything during breastfeeding. Now, with less milk, I can feel her tiny teeth grazing my skin, which can be quite irritating. I’ve even thought about searching for silicone patches to cover my nipples to spare myself from the sensation. But the idea of explaining that choice to my partner gives me pause—though I think he’d understand.
I dream of a night of uninterrupted sleep, but that remains elusive. She wakes at least two or three times nightly, needing just a minute of nursing to settle back down. It’s exhausting.
Yet, I’m not ready to force her to wean. The World Health Organization recommends breastfeeding until age two or beyond, but even without that guidance, all I have to do is look at her. She’s still such a little baby. Throughout the day, she’s constantly on the move, expressing her feelings with dramatic flair. When she finally snuggles into her pajamas at night and we rock together while nursing, I can’t help but admire her long lashes resting on her chubby cheeks. Sometimes, she even makes suckling motions in her sleep. She’s truly the embodiment of my dreams, a little rainbow girl who came to us after a time of loss.
I eagerly await the day she decides to stop breastfeeding, and I completely understand why some parents choose to end this phase early. But for now, I’m willing to navigate the challenges of nursing for a while longer. Until she’s two—that’s my limit. If she’s not weaned by then, I might just have to cut her off… maybe.
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Summary:
This article explores the challenges and emotional journey of breastfeeding a toddler who is still very attached to their mother. The author shares personal anecdotes of frustration and joy while navigating the complexities of nursing longer than initially planned. Despite the exhaustion, the bond formed during these moments is cherished, and there is an understanding that each child has their own timeline for weaning.
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