Magical Ta-Tas

My son is a boob man.  Always has been and remains so at nearly sixteen months.  And I’m ok with that.  I do want to wean some time in the not too distant future.  But truth be told, I’m pretty ambivalent about it.  I will miss those moments we share at the very beginning and very end of every day.  I will ache when I say so long to the baby days for good. 

I know all of that is normal.  And I’ll get over it. After all, his life is about him growing into a man, it’s not about him being my baby. Right?

But people.  What in god’s name am I going to do with out the magic boobs???  THIS, my friends, is what has me in a panic. 

Case-in-point: last night.  I got home from work and walked in to the sound of my boy screaming his frustration and rage and who-knows-what.  I met my husband’s crazy eyes and they told me that the little mister had been FREAKING OUT basically since they left daycare.  It had taken Masa 5 full minutes to wrestle Gus into the carseat.  He screamed all the way home.  He was fussy and ragey and toddlery the whole time they’d been home.  When I picked him up, there was no change.   He wanted down. He wanted dad. He wanted the exact opposite of whatever it was he was offered.

That is, until I offered him the boobeh.  Silence. Happy, contented, snuggly silence.  It’s not that he was hungry, because Masa was offering him food and water.  It’s just that he wanted that comfort.  He nursed for a few minutes, popped off, and wriggled off my lap to play happily with his toys, eat dinner, bathe and go to bed his normal happy and easy-going self.

I don’t know if his fit-throwing was teething, or if he’s coming down with something. Separation anxiety? Or if it was simply toddlerhood rearing its “spirited” head.  But whatever it was, the girls provided an instant cure-all. 

Holy Hell. What on earth am I going to do without them in my mommy arsenal?

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