For the first time ever, the little berry drank from a bottle I gave her this morning. She resisted initially and I had to distract her with some iPhone videos of herself before she would settle down to drink. Thereafter, with the help of some more videos and books, she finished all 120ml of formula milk.
Initially, I was so happy. Whee! This is a miracle! She can actually be weaned! This is a great beginning and we’ll keep up with this for a week before we cut out another feed, then it’ll be home-free after that, yay! My elongated nipples can finally get some rest, and I can finally experiences some form of freedom since my boobs don’t have to around 24/7 in case she wants “milk milk”.
Then as I was there holding her bottle I was suddenly overcome with a weird feeling – I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at first, but I realised later on that it felt like melancholy. That the end of an era is approaching, soon she’ll be fully weaned and we will no longer spend long afternoons and nights lying side by side, skin to skin.
There will be fewer chances to stroke her hair as she suckles, fewer chances for her to feel for my mouth, or grab my nose and tell me “nose!”. I’ll miss the times she would suddenly unlatch to kiss me or and tell me “xie xie”, and the way I can see her bury her face in the nook of my side and drift off to sleep (nipple still in her mouth).
Lying beside her the other day, I suddenly remembered those endless days when I used the nursing pillow and she could fit so perfectly on the pillow, with room to spare. Now she’s all grown up. I read somewhere that letting go is the secret to happy parenting, perhaps this is my first opportunity to let go of my little berry… I’ll really miss nursing her, and all the quiet, intimate moments we spent huddled together while the world spins on.