Mama's Milk

          I began the new year resolved to wean the girls before spring break. I was having fantasies of jetting off by myself somewhere, even if just to West Asheville, spending my first night ever away from my children in the three plus years since Clayton was born. I've been pregnant or nursing so long now that I've almost forgotten what my "normal" body looks like, although I do vaguely remember a time when I could run without doubling up on jog bras. But it wasn't eagerness to reverse my natural boob job that motivated me to wean, although, honestly, I do prefer my non-lactating bust. I just had the sense that it was time. Clayton had stopped nursing cold turkey at eleven months, when three teeth coming in at once made it just too painful to nurse. And although the suddenness of it made for a few painful, engorged days, I was glad in retrospect to have totally avoided the challenges of weaning that so many of the nursing moms I knew experienced. There are enough power struggles with toddlers, I told myself. I didn't want battles over nursing to be one of them.
       The girls, though, seem to have other ideas, their interest in mama's milk showing no signs of slackening. At the playground, the library, the Y, they beg to be picked up, then arch their backs and fling themselves to one side. But while the theatrics of their insistence irks me at times, I never cease to be amazed by the transformation a few minutes nursing can work. Sylvia, who has been loathe to give up her morning nap, by late morning is often near the end of her proverbial rope. She pulls on her hair and rubs her eyes, wailing if I put her down, thrashing even in my arms. I nurse her to buy time while the others go down the slide a few more times, or listen to one more story at the library. She is almost always invigorated afterwards, sliding off my lap to go and play herself, as if my leche were a double latte. Dee Dee, on the other hand, charges through the morning tirelessly, but often wakes from her nap flushed and grumpy. She refuses food and drink, shaking her head wildly and flinging anything I offer to the ground. A few minutes of nursing, though, and she breaks away talking-- "Dad-dee!" she says to anyone these days-- and slips to the floor to march around with her little bow-legged gait and jutted chin. It's as if mama's milk is some kind of magic elixir. It can make a tired baby lively, a grumpy one content. And how easy! I can let Dee squawk and fuss, raising my voice over hers to read Clayton a book, while she grabs at the pages and claws at my legs, or we can all sit quietly reading on the couch, Clayton playing tenderly with her feet while she nurses.
       Nursing feels like the "get out of jail free card" of mothering, a sure-fire way to comfort, soothe, quiet. And despite the elaborate plans I devise in my head for how I'm going to cut back-- three times a day by the end of February, two weeks of twice a day, just once by the end of March-- there's no time of day that I really want to cut out. I love the way nursing eases us into the morning, how, when Sylvia wakes before the alarm goes off at six, I can bring her to bed and cuddle with her quietly in a cocoon of warmth beneath the blankets. Bedtimes, too, I treasure, the way, after nursing, Sylvia collapses willingly into bed, how Dee Dee quiets in my arms, all her boisterous energy of moments before dissolving as we rock.
      So why, I wonder, if nursing is such a boon for me and a comfort to the girls, do I want to-- or, rather, feel like I should-- wean? When the girls practically tackle me in the childcare room at the Y, arching over backwards in my arms, why do I feel like I have to apologize, "I'm trying to cut back!" When the only comments I've heard from strangers have been positive-- "I can't believe you're nursing twins! Way to go!"-- why do I fear the judgement of others? At not even fifteen months, the girls are hardly pushing the envelope when it comes to nursing longevity. And anyway, who, other than myself, is counting? When it comes down to it, isn't it just between us? Maybe I'll tire of it before they do, maybe not. I guess we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it, and hopefully we'll manage to do it with a little bit of grace.