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That is how long my Sambini nursed. Add a few extra weeks for good measure.

I have no idea how to feel about it now that this phase of my life is over. So damn happy I could cry? Yes. A pinch sad that he’s growing up? Yes. Relieved beyond measure? Absolutely.

Of everything I have done in my life (not much, mind you, I’m only in my mid-twenties), this–nursing my son waaaaaaaay longer than I ever dreamed or wanted–has easily been the hardest thing for me to accomplish. For over a year, I hated every moment of nursing, but the little guy just wasn’t ready to quit. With every latch, I swore no other child of mine would be breastfed. Ever. Not one little attempt would be made. Nuh-uh. But it’s funny, much like childbirth (although, I think everyone lies about that one, I remember every awful minute of that birthing pain), the severity of it all seemed to fade the week he decided to wean.

This experience has truly been the one to teach me that I can do anything I want. I can accomplish any goal. I have learned that my mind is powerful and will get me through the worst of whatever. So, yes, I am excited to have given my son this gift, but I am more excited to have proven to myself that I am unstoppable. I only need to set my mind to it.

Sometimes, learning first hand is far more powerful than any motivational poster.

 

UPDATE:

Haaaaaa! Joke’s on me! Of course, the day after I officially declare anything about my child, he goes off and proves me wrong. Totally not weaned. On the bright side, after 6 weeks of not nursing, I actually had some dribbles of milk left to offer him. And this morning, the girls were all, “We’re back in business! Let’s make some milk!”

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