To Whom it May Concern: My Nursling on the 1,054th day.

Dear Son,

We have nursed at home in our bed, on couches, and on chairs. We have nursed in six countries,  under the Eiffel tower, and in the shade of Blarney Castle.

We have nursed at a water park’s lazy river while lounging on an inner tube (that was my favorite),  and in the hospital under an oxygen tent (that was my least favorite).

We have nursed in 12 states, at a college football game,  in movie theaters, in a dozen parks, at the zoo, in the snow, in the sand, and in a tent. We have nursed by a fireside,  in a hammock, at 31,000 feet, and in the middle of the Atlantic ocean.

We have nursed alone and in a circle with other nursing mamas.  We have nursed when you were sick,  when I was sick, and when we both were  sick.  I have nursed you without shame and with my head held high at stores, and at church–wherever you needed nur-nurs, caring more about you than what other people may have thought.

We learned to nurse together- standing, sitting, laying down, and with one of us standing on his head.  We know how to nurse in a sling, in the bathtub, in the car, on a boat, and on a train.

Together we have nursed when I was happy and when I was sad–when you were happy and (rarely) sad.

My milk has fixed your ouchies, made you giggle, made you sleep, made you wake, made you well and made you grow and grow and grow.

Together we have made this nursing relationship last for three long very long kinda short years.  We’ve made it through new teeth, stuffy noses,  through thousands of miles traveled together, and seemingly a million twilight mornings.   We even made it through me working for a year and having to pump gallons and gallons of milk.

I am proud of you–I am proud of me.  And yet, it is time, it really is time, to be done.  I am relieved.  I am scared.  I am thrilled.  I am heartbroken. I am unsure of how to parent without this sure-fire fix, yet confident that we have developed the tools to figure it out.

Will you understand why I will say no when you reach for me?  Will you know that I still love you with every atom, of every cell of my being?  Will you still love me the same way you do now?

I was thinking about my first memory recently–it was when I was three years and one month old, the day your uncle was born.  Will you remember any of our nursing?  Will you grow to be supportive of your wife breastfeeding?  Will you know that bottles are not should not be the norm?  I don’t know.  My crystal ball has never worked, but my faith does, and I have faith in us.

Thank you sweet boy.

Thank you for the countless nursey-naps where we drifted to sleep latched, where your warm little body eased against mine and your little lips released in a contented somnolent sigh, where the drop of milk on your chin rested and made your skin softer than could have been believed.

Thank you for smiling up at me while never releasing my breast.  Thank you for stroking my hair, my face, my chest as you made your little nummy noises.

Thank you for teaching me about myself, about the gift of my body, about having confidence in what is right.

Thank you for being you, for letting me be me.

I love you forever and ever and ever so much bigger.

Mama

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