“Eighteen months. That’s it. If she’s not weaned by eighteen months, I’m cutting her off,” I exclaimed to my husband in frustration. Our seventeen-month-old daughter had woken me up for the third time that night to nurse, and I was on the brink of exhaustion. With her teething, the only thing that seemed to soothe her was breastfeeding. I was completely over it.
Ella is a pandemic baby, so her attachment to me is incredibly strong, often leaving me feeling a bit overwhelmed. She spent her entire first year at home with me, rarely stepping outside. While I treasure the moments we shared, I believe this has made her transition to independence a bit more difficult. She’s glued to me around the clock and has been nursing far longer than either of her older siblings did.
Both of my boys weaned around fifteen months, gradually reducing to once a day for several months before that. I nursed them just to sleep at night, and it felt sweet and gentle. When they weaned, it was a bittersweet moment. I felt proud of them for growing up, but it also felt like a piece of their infancy slipped away when they went to bed without breastfeeding. They woke up as big boys, fully immersed in toddlerhood.
Ella has prolonged this process so much that I’m pretty sure all I’ll feel is relief when it’s over. She’s nearly nineteen months old now, and — in a revelation that will surprise no other parents who have breastfed — I didn’t cut off my little “milk magnet” at eighteen months.
Why not? Well, it’s complicated. I intended to start limiting her access when she turned sixteen months, hoping to wrap it up by eighteen months, but she looked so small and sweet. I thought, what’s one more month? Then, she started getting four molars at once, and it felt unkind to wean her while she was in pain. Just when those tiny teeth came through, she broke her leg. I didn’t want to take away her only comfort during that tough time.
After her cast came off, I tried to muster the resolve to end our breastfeeding chapter, but then RSV hit our household. My poor little girl was miserable, needing a trip to the ER, steroids, and breathing treatments. What kind of monster could deny their child comfort when they were so vulnerable? Not this monster.
So here we are, a month beyond my self-imposed limit, and there’s no end in sight. My daughter nurses countless times a day, including overnight, and I’m just rolling with it. She doesn’t take a pacifier, and she hasn’t latched onto a blanket or toy. (Yes, pun intended.) “Boobies” are her only source of comfort, and she relies on me.
As I navigate this, I can’t say I’m entirely opposed to it. For the most part, I’m okay with it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t experience frustration. Just last night, I nursed her on both sides, and she peacefully drifted off to sleep… until I gently unlatched her, as I do every night, and she lost it. She woke up, shrieking “Boobie!” at an ear-piercing pitch that I didn’t even know I could hear. Our dogs bolted outside to escape her meltdown, and I calmly handed her over to her father and went to run a bath—for myself. Let him handle the milkless moment for once.
I love her more than anything, but I often feel overwhelmed. One of my kids is constantly on me, and nursing amplifies that. When I was full of milk, I had limited sensation in my nipples; breastfeeding didn’t feel like much. Now that they’re less full, her little teeth grazing my skin throughout nursing just gets on my nerves. I’ve contemplated searching for “flesh-colored silicone patches” to cover my nipples, just to see if they exist. I could convince her that they fell off from overuse.
The only reason I haven’t searched for them is that I fear they might exist, and I can’t imagine how to explain to my husband why I’d choose to go without nipples rather than continue nursing our child. (To be fair, I think he’d totally get it. He’s one of the good ones.)
I long for the day when I can sleep through the night, but it hasn’t happened yet. She wakes up at least two or three times, needing just a minute of nursing to settle back down. Yet, somehow, she always needs it right when I finally drift into a deep sleep. I’m utterly exhausted.
But forcing her to wean isn’t in the cards for me—not yet. The World Health Organization recommends breastfeeding until age two or beyond, but even if they didn’t, I just need to look at her. She still feels like a baby. She’s always in motion, expressing her every emotion dramatically. When she’s finally snuggled up in her pajamas, and we sit together to breastfeed, her long lashes rest on her chubby cheeks as she drifts off. Sometimes, she even makes a suckling motion while she sleeps. She embodies every dream I’ve ever had—a little rainbow girl who completed our family after a difficult season of loss.
I look forward to the day when she decides she’s done breastfeeding (and I completely understand why some parents choose to end this toddler-nursing phase before their milk-obsessed little ones do), but for now, I’m choosing to embrace the challenges of breastfeeding for a little while longer. Until she’s two. That’s my limit. If she’s not weaned by then, I’m cutting her off… maybe.
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Summary:
This article shares the struggles and joys of breastfeeding a toddler who is still highly dependent on nursing for comfort. The author reflects on her experiences with her daughter, Ella, who has extended her nursing journey well past the eighteen-month mark due to various challenges, including teething and illness. As she navigates the complexities of attachment and independence, the author acknowledges her frustrations while also cherishing the bond they share.