The river of milk that has flowed from my breasts for four long years has almost run dry. I feel like an ocean a continent, the Pacific, Africa. It has been a long emotional journey that has bounded me closely to my son.
The demands for breast milk recently have become less and less frequent. Last night his head hit the pillow without the usual sweet smile and kindly requests for “boo boo; boo boo”. Naoise has self weaned himself.
I have loved the warmth of his face on the skin of my breasts, the wrapping of his mouth around my nipples, the beauty of his smiles and the intensity of his eyes gazing up at me with deep satisfaction.
Breastfeeding him over this prolonged period of time has been a hugely pleasurable and joyous experience. But I have not forgotten the fuzzy days of sleep deprivation and falling asleep bolt upright in bed with head slumped forward. Feeding him around the clock. Being entirely exhausted. A life centred around feeding, changing nappies,juggling housework, tickling toes, coo coo ca choos stealing happy glances and paying just enough attention to an older child and my partner to get away with it.
It has been a long journey of endurance. As he makes a move away from the nurture of my breasts, my heart, my sweet milk, I feel a huge sense of loss. The milk that has flowed from my breasts will run completely dry and I will become the Sahara Desert and the rains may never return.
