My baby girl is fifteen months old. She has grown into such a big girl. She plays on her own. She pets the dog nicely. She can look at pop up books without tearing them. She has more words every day. Yesterday, she brought me a book and asked, “read this?” She loves to wrap herself around my legs and demand, “Up!” If I even whisper the word “graham cracker,” she runs into the kitchen, calling out, “Cracker! Cracker!”
At fifteen months, my big girl is still my baby. She still falls asleep in my lap. She still rubs her piggy blanket on her cheek when she’s tired. She still smells like a baby. Sweet and soft.
My baby is all done breastfeeding. I had a good cry tonight when I realized that it’s over. I had surgery 10 days ago, and I haven’t been able to nurse her. She’s been getting cups of breast milk instead. I still can’t pick her up, so my husband curls up with her to read her a story and give her a cup of milk before bed. For a few nights, she cried a little. Her little quivering voice calling, “me maw-maw!” over the baby monitor. Tonight, I kissed her on the forehead as my husband began her story. I walked away. And she didn’t notice. I hovered by the doorway, watching my baby girl gaze up at my husband, eyelids heavy and drooping. I’m so in love with both of them that it aches.
It’s time for me to let go now. She already has.
For more information about breastfeeding, check out my other breastfeeding articles!
