When Ellison was 18 months old, we weaned. We did it cold turkey, and it worked beautifully. Sure, there were a couple of rough nights, but he got used it relatively quickly and painlessly and all was well.
So when I started really feeling done* with the whole nursing thing with Rory, I figured it would work pretty much the same way.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Excuse me. Ha.
At 17 months old, Rory was not ready to wean. She was nutritionally ready – she ate a TON, and rarely wanted to nurse during the day – but emotionally she needs to nurse. I figured this out after three nights of basically zero sleep, in which she screamed uncontrollably and wouldn’t let anyone touch her, all because I calmly and firmly told her we weren’t nursing anymore.
She also began refusing to nap during the day, and developed separation anxiety like crazy. According to Dr. Sears, this is a textbook example of how not to wean.
I’ve backed off on weaning for now. I’m hoping that once we get her settled back into a routine and feeling secure we can try weaning again.
*I’m very much a fan of nursing, but I’m also a fan of my own sanity, and the two seem to be at odds with each other. Seriously, though, you want to breastfeed into toddlerhood? More power to you!
My very small child is a somewhat less small child now, and I’ve got to say, I’m a little melancholy about it. Not that I want to stunt his growth or anything. What? I totally don’t, and categorically deny any rumors to the contrary.
I don’t miss all-night wakeups, endless nursing sessions, teething, drooling, or spit-up. I don’t miss his frustration over not being able to walk – which, if you recall, he got over pretty damned early – or talk. I don’t miss having to lug the stroller with us on every outing (although, let me just say, if we’d gotten an Ergo sooner my life would have been SO MUCH EASIER OMG). I don’t miss poopsplosions or chewed-up books. And I really, really don’t miss being pregnant.
But my big kid (he’s three! Seriously. I would not kid about a thing like that) is pretty cool, too. He likes Doctors Who and Horrible . He enjoys pirate songs on YouTube. He’ll say “That’s pretty weird” when confronted with things like Hamster on a Piano. He thinks birthdays are the greatest thing ever, with Christmas a close second. He won’t get out of bed in the morning until we “Guggle some more!” And he’s, you know, crazy handsome.
A friend on Facebook said “You know, you two really have a responsibility to the world to have another child. I mean he is just so cute.” She’s right. He really is.
Happy (belated) birthday, kid.
Apparently it’s December, if the calendars can be trusted. And I say, why not trust the calendars? What did they ever do to you?
My kid is inexorably, adorably inching closer to three years of age, a time when he will miraculously be capable of rational thought and self-sufficiency. I am very certain I will not be disappointed when, in a little less than two weeks, he wakes up and makes me a full English breakfast complete with espresso just the way I like it and a tiny bouquet of freshly-picked flowers. Because, three. Three will be my salvation, people.
But since he’s still two, the kid has been making the most of it, transforming from relatively easy-going (if stubborn and opinionated) toddler to Oh My God I Don’t Know How You Can Scream For So Long Without Taking A Breath (And Other Stories). We’ve got the old standbys of Meals and Bedtime, taken to new extremes (will not eat anything but granola bars! Refuses to sleep before midnight!), as well as some new and exciting triggers such as Cannot Possibly Hold Hands With Mommy If Daddy Is In The Same State and Diapers: Not For Changing. I would make a comment about the end of my rope, were I still able to remember a time when I had rope to measure.
Kids: you totally want one!
Which of course means I saw the cutest siblings out the other day, a brother and a sister around 8 and 10, horsing around at the crosswalk but then putting their arms around each other while they crossed the street. Just for a second, but long enough for me to think I want my kid to be a big brother. Because he’d be pretty awesome at it, probably. (Never mind that I couldn’t stand my sister when we were kids and we didn’t get along until she was probably 16 and I was 20…) I have to keep reminding myself of how much I loathed being pregnant and how nicely having one kid fits into our lives, because otherwise I’d be all baby crazy again and no one wants that.
And, seriously, could I handle another round of the Terrible Twos?