In this photo I see my sweet Leif at eight months old, mostly asleep at my breast. His little body pressed to mine; we are curled in bed together. His little hands are holding my breast in perfect instinctual concentration, his elbows tucked in like little wings at his side. I’m kissing his forehead. Our faces are turned inward, his to my breast, mine to his head. Our little world is right there. At this moment, I am his everything, and he is mine. 
Nursing at 8 months
The outside world lurks, but does not penetrate our peace. The dishes are in the sink, the laundry sits in its basket, all the quotidian chores that I used to feel guilty for neglecting can wait. Having Leif has released me from feeling that stuff is important.
Watching him, at this age, I am aware of all the ways I’ve been molded to fit into the world, and marvel that he is at once both entirely his own little person, and still so new that we’ve only begun to see the person he will someday be. We all grow to learn our place in the world and with those we make relationships, but now he is still a bundle of need and take. He doesn’t know how much I love giving to him, though I feel through the trust he gives me that in his bones he knows. I’m his mother.
How many hours over the last fifteen months have we spent like this? How many more do we have? When Leif was born the days all blurred together, yawned out over time until suddenly he was three months old, and then the holidays came and went, and six months passed. I was lucky to not be working his first year. We had so much time. I learned to take naps again, to slow my busy brain. I read books while he slept and went to yoga classes. We nursed to sleep.
When Leif was new, and his whole body still defaulted into a curled up bean, he’d snuggle perfectly into the space left by my body curled around him. I would keep a hand on him, feel his baby chest rise and fall as he slept. I didn’t know babies made so many noises. He snorted in his sleep. Nursing was a noisy affair: slurps, grunts, burps. We nicknamed him the Gremlin because he’d get hungry and look at me and start making these grunty noises, mouth opening and closing as he zeroed in.
When babies are born they can only see as far as about eight to twelve inches: the distance from breast to mom’s eyes. I was literally his whole world. He took to breastfeeding like a pro. We had so few problems, and only later, listening to other mothers, did I realize how lucky we were. Over time Leif’s little hand motions changed from little waves and random finger flexing to soft gripping. Around four months--I think, the time all blurs together--he started making big slow circles with his arm down his body, over to my belly, up over my breast, across his head and down again. For a few months when we nursed he would settle in my arms and immediately start these circles. It was mesmerizing. I’d watch his hand move; I’d watch his eyes flutter under his lids; we were both hypnotized--he by my breast, me by this little motion he’d invented. I cried when I realized one day he’d stopped.
It was an amazingly natural and easy process for me to become a mother. During pregnancy, I had very little nausea, no morning sickness, no heartburn, and was very healthy. After sleeping a lot the first few months I had trouble sleeping the last couple, but that’s all normal. Those small things are manageable when you feel the power of a life growing inside you. I loved everything about it. If I could be about six months pregnant forever, I think I’d be happy: the glow, the energy, the adorable but not-yet-unwieldy bump. The sense that my body was constantly in production, gearing up for its greatest piece of art. But as excited as I was to become a mother, I could wait for the baby, I was happy to let nature flow at her pace-- I loved the pregnancy so much. My husband and I cherished our time left as a couple.
I had a lovely, hard, but worthwhile birth. The change from before Leif to after his birth was dramatic and all-consuming, the biggest change of my life, yet motherhood settled on me with more ease than I could have predicted. I love being a mother. I love it. I feel like I’m good at it, though I’ve heard that will change. For now, while Leif is so young, our symbiotic relationship is thrilling. I used to think that love was something we learned through family, experience, poetry. Now I know it is there from the very beginning, from when he was swimming in my womb—he has always loved and needed me, and he’s had no reason to doubt my love for him, and he shows his love for me a million ways every day.
Nursing at 21 months
My friend L’s boy G self-weaned over the course of a week. He starting refusing her breast, then would have some milk, then refuse more and more until she realized it had been five days since he nursed. She stopped offering. I think about the as I nurse Leif now, at 21 months old, seemingly endlessly during this period of teething. His canines are taking a toll on his little mouth, our sleep, and he nurses to comfort himself at night, in the morning. He doesn’t seem like he’ll self-wean anytime soon.
I have a two-day trip planned in a few weeks with my girlfriends; a getaway to Beitenbush Hot Springs. Leif, who came along last year while he was still a crawler, will stay home with his daddy this time. I have mixed feelings about this. I’ve never been away from him overnight before, and I hope he won’t be too freaked out by my absence. Leif has just started demanding that Dad help him with putting on his shoes; he wants Dad to read to him. If we are heading outside he wants Dad to come too. This new occasional preference for his daddy is a relief. They will be fine without me. I get a little more respite now from being physically attached to Leif all the time; he lets his dad--demands, really--read with him and play. The light in both their eyes is beautiful.
Being a mother though, I have a built-in tendency to worry. What if I go away for two days, and Leif decided to not nurse when I return? What if my breasts dry up in two days? Is a relaxing weekend away worth the risk? I know many mothers who have already left their child overnight, and the first time especially is hard for everyone. I still love nursing. I love our connection, I love that when Leif is upset he reaches for me and together we make him feel better. I always had a hope we’d nurse for at least two years. And even though biology and life often has other plans for us, I imagine that when I decide to get pregnant again, not only will that happen easily when I want it to, but Leif will have phased out almost all nursing. My friend T has a son Leif’s age, N, and she just had a daughter a few weeks ago. She nursed N all through her pregnancy and is tandem nursing now. She wishes she had weaned N, who, like Leif, is showing no signs of slowing down. With a newborn you are nursing constantly anyway, and with a toddler she feels it’s pushing her over the edge. She feels revulsion at nursing N, which makes her feel guilty. And N is even more assertive than Leif, as well as a bit jealous of his baby sister. He doesn’t quite understand why he has to share his mother’s breasts.
Observing my friends’ experiences with weaning and tandem nursing, I feel I’m at a crossroads, though really I’m still following Leif’s lead. We’re on a Don’t Offer, Hardly Ever Refuse plan. I don’t want to stop yet and neither does he. But I find myself wishing it took less time to nurse him to sleep, that he nursed fewer times in the day. I fantasize about having my body back to myself before I get pregnant again. He’s becoming more independent which is thrilling to watch, and creates a conflict within me: I simultaneously want more bodily autonomy and want to nurse him longer for his health, for our connection.
Nursing a toddler can be maddening, it can be sweet. It’s adorable when he reaches for me, for “na-na”, and climbs into position on my lap. It is frequently a full-contact affair: he wiggles, kicks, grabs, twists his head around. But what gives me the willies is he likes to finger two moles I have at the base of my throat, pinching and touching them. It’s like Chinese water torture. After a while my skin feels raw and sensitive, my anxiety rises, I feel repulsed. For months, since he became stronger and his dexterity improved, I have been preventing him from touching those moles but his hand instinctively goes there almost every time he nurses, especially if he’s trying to calm himself for sleep. I imagine that revulsion magnified by one hundred if I were to be pregnant and nursing. My breasts were so sensitive and sore last time, I’m afraid an active toddler nursing would feel awful. But like most elements of motherhood, you do what you have to do and figure out the rest. Just when I’ve reached my limit, and I think about weaning, is when Leif becomes the sweetest. When he’s crossed that threshold toward sleep he turns into a baby again. He cocoons his body into mine, his legs curled up, little big feet pressed into my thighs, and closes his eyes, nursing to sleep. I still help him drift off, he’s no longer active toddler on the move, but my baby again. I often feel like rushing him to sleep while I think about what I have to do--dishes, laundry, alone time with my husband, read--but then I’ll stay with him for 20 or 30 minutes after he’s asleep, listening to his baby breathing, having missed the moment he fell off my breast. I’ll put my ear on his back and feel his lungs rise and fall, smell his beautiful smell. Sometimes I’ll drift to sleep with him.
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