(six months ago, a pause for comfort in jardin du luxembourg)
a week ago today we had our last breastfeed. Exactly two-months shy of your second birthday. For a while now I've struggled with wanting to wean you and wanting to wait for you to wean me. In the end it was a bit of both, and bittersweet still.
When we began this journey, when you were hours and days and weeks old in my arms I was sobered by how little I knew about this womanly art. I assumed it would be simple to master. It was difficult at first and woefully uncomfortable. But we pushed through, we sought help, we soldiered on, and soon enough it did become straightforward and enjoyable. I can say my body was a part in not only carrying you in my womb, but growing you on the outside too. I can say I held you to my breast on a crowded moroccan train... in an art gallery in paris... in a snowy forest in germany... in a jet plane flying over the atlantic.... in the house I grew up in... in a forest of gum trees... on a farm... on a sandy beach... on so many long nights and early mornings and middays... and comforted you.
Now before bed you look at me with beautiful green eyes and say "nigh nigh mama". I nuzzle you against my shoulder blade and sing green grow the rushes o'... I lay you down in your own bed awake and yawning. Tucking you in tight I say I love you, good night little Reu. I walk slowly to the door, a tear rolling down my cheek. I weep a little outside on the grass, at this letting go. I smile too, and whisper, let go and grow...