So you know your child is really really really over your boobs and all their nurturing goodness, when after a week or so of unofficial self-weaning, out of nowhere, you nonchalantly whip out your breast as you whistle staring off in another direction – and he doesn’t bat an eyelash.  In fact, he stares at them intently as though he’s thinking ‘hmm.  those look vaguely familiar…but i can’t quite place them.’ – and then snaps out of his deja-vu acid trip and looks at you very seriously and says ‘crack-kah?’.   You desperately hand pump the ol’ trusty sign for breastfeeding as you say enthusiastically, mama milk?, surely this will ring a bell.  Orr, not so much.  You then realize that you border on pervert, when you “accidentally” leave said breast exposed and carry on with building of blocks and cutting of plastic produce.  So what – you’re hanging out on the playroom floor willing your child to take interest in your deflated, and now lame bosoms because you just want to be 100% sure that he’s sure.  Totally harmless, and really – it’s the least I could do.  And then you hear your husband return from school early.  And there you are all flaunting your breasts up in your childs face.  And you quickly pull yourself together and walk around the house nervously with an unhooked bra and you suddenly feel like a drug addict.

A drug addict who is now urging her husband to hurry up and LEAVE ALREADY for that run he’s suiting up for – because you need to get back to your crack.  Surely the child is now traumatized – confused – eager to run back to his boobs.  And you need to give him his boobs!

But the husband leaves and the child has long since forgotten about that curious nipple.  In fact, not only is he not clawing his way at your now concealed boob – he’s rolling around in the dog bed in a fit of hysterical laughter because he KNOWS, that second to the inaccessible toilets, it is THE most vile and disgusting place in the house.  And it doesn’t matter that you actually pay someone else to do deep cleaning sorts of things to your floors (vacuuming/mopping/et al), that you should really be doing because you’re the STAY AT HOME mom (ie: its kinda your job to be productive and shit.  in the house.), but whatever, you pay someone to do this cleaning of floors to purge all the dog nastiness – just for your toddler.  Who spends half of his days lounging in the dog beds.  With and without the dogs.  The best is when he’s sprawled on the dog in the dog bed, and the dog decides it’s as good a time as any to chew at his balls which happen to be 5 inches from your childs face.  Oh wait, he has no balls.  Even better!  It’s lovely.

Back to the boobs.  So long story short, the husband leaves for his run and you whisk the kid off to the bedroom (aka: sanctuary of nursing love) hopeful that the old set-up will help to remind him of the important decision he has made, and that he can have his old job back if he wants it.  I’d be down.  So I lay him down on top of me in the bed and bust them out.  BUFFET IS OPEN!  And he is totally confused.  Excited!  but confused.  It’s a game!  Right?  He takes a little slurp – then a bite – then runs across the bed – comes back – goes back on – and off – then sucks – then bites…and well, now I’m laughing.  This is ridiculous.  I am a total mom pervert.  Trying to ho the girls for one last gig.  And I get nothing but a raving lunatic with total amnesia, who has absolutely no interest in breastfeeding.  I look at him and say, while signing, ‘All done?’.  He signs back – All Done.

So is there like a My Baby Has Weaned Recovery Program for this shit or what?  While I am temporarily heartbroken, we had a good run – 16 months.  I’m thrilled that this part of our relationship can end on his terms entirely – but damn, that breastfeeding is something else and I sure will miss it (with him).

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