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The Big Wean

Boobs, you've earned it.

 

Well, it’s happening. I am finally weaning the last child to have exited my body, and big things are happening! And by “big things” of course I mean, ‘I think I might be going crazy’, ‘how can that little tiny thing that just happened have made me so furious that I wanted to kick a tree’, and ‘I think I might be sweating milk.’

I mean, it’s good, it’s good—it needs to happen, and it has been a long time coming, but it is throwing me for an emotional loop that was deeper and more complex than I expected.

I get that there is a hormonal change going on, and please believe me when I say that my husband is also really enjoying this part of the whole thing.

Me: (slowly loading the dishwasher with tears streaming down my face)

Him: Oh my God, are you OK?

Me: (thousand yard stare) Things are so impermanent.

Him: (backs slowly out of the room)

But I actually think that the worst part of weaning your youngest child, when you know for sure that you are done having children, is the feeling that you are now old. That your children have all officially become “children,” not “babies,” and also that you are now old. Did I say that clearly enough? Old. You (by which I mean me) are an Old Oldie from Oldsville. Welcome to Egg-Salad Town. Hope you like doing puzzles, and hiking your comfort-waist pants up to nipple height.

So anyway, I forgot about this whole part. The part about how things change and life goes forward, and babies and children can’t be preserved forever in shadowboxes like exotic butterflies and tarantulas and the like.

And so, since even just writing that last part down I started to cry again, I should really try to lighten the mood a bit. I’d like to dedicate the last part of this post to thanking my boobs for all that they have accomplished.

Girls, I love you. You have done your job admirably. After a rocky start with the first child, you really summoned the inner fortitude to feed not one, but two additional children, working non-stop for almost six years now. And so, you are officially retired. Thanks you for your service and dedication. I bought you a gold watch. (I didn’t. Those are the hormones talking.)

Now you may go back to whatever it was that you did before the children were born; by which I mean, you may return to your duties as the sex objects that God intended you to be.

Ha.

 

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Check out other posts by  Sam:

The Gift of Boredom

In Which I Discuss Moving To The Suburbs

In Which Allana’s Boob Is Grazed By Oprah

 

 

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