I roll over, bleary-eyed and sore from a restless night of sleep, and feel the familiar tug of tiny hands on my cotton T-shirt. My two-year-old, Elsie, pulls down my shirt and latches on to my nipple—nursing hungrily with her eyes still shut, her tiny nails pulling at the soft flesh on my breast.
“Ouch!” I shout, instantly awake, Elsie’s nail digs deep into my skin, leaving a tiny violet-hued mark. I stick my finger in her mouth to cut the suction to my nipple, but she angrily bites down on my finger. I let out another painful yelp, and her eyes fly open. Elsie shrieks at the abrupt ending to her nursing session, and the rude awakening from her slumber. All I feel is anger, pain, and fatigue, frustrated that I’m still nursing and wishing I knew how to stop.
I’ve spent many late nights on Google, searching “how to stop nursing your toddler” and “support groups for women who want to stop nursing.” There’s not much out there for women like me, extended breastfeeders who wish they weren’t.
I’ve been a mother for a total of seven years, raising my three daughters alongside my husband in our little city known for attachment parenting and “hippie” lifestyles. I’ve been breastfeeding my children for a combined total of 67 months, my middle daughter having nursed until she was almost three, and my youngest still going strong after 26 months. I’ve spent many late nights on Google, searching “how to stop nursing your toddler” and “support groups for women who want to stop nursing.” There’s not much out there for women like me, extended breastfeeders who wish they weren’t.
I fell into this role accidentally. My oldest daughter nursed for “only” seven months; when she started losing weight and arching her back at the breast, I knew it was time to switch to full-time formula. I felt like a failure; I had read all the books on nursing and still was unable to reach my goal of breastfeeding for a full year. Now I just look back on the freedom I had as a young mom to one, bottle full of formula in my purse, willingly passing on the feeding duties to my husband or anyone else.
By the time I had my second daughter, Gigi, I was committed to making it to that one-year mark, pitting myself against my former perceived failure. We celebrated her first birthday (and my crowning achievement), where she washed down her birthday cake with breast milk. My breasts were still full of milk as she grew older, and she had no interest in stopping, so we naturally fell into the rhythm of nursing beyond a year. By the time Gigi was two she was practically addicted, nursing throughout the day, waking up throughout the night for precious milk. I nursed her through most of my pregnancy with Elsie, even dabbling in the painful art of “dry nursing” for a few months, which means my daughter latched on to my breast, but I was no longer producing any milk. When I was six weeks away from my due date, I started getting painful contractions when Gigi was latched—afraid of going into labor early, I firmly said no, but the aftermath remains a blur.
With Elsie things became a bit more complicated. Shortly after she was born she stopped gaining weight, and at a few weeks old she was diagnosed with a heart condition. Life felt a lot more precarious for all of us. For a brief time we had to supplement with formula, while I pumped almost exclusively, doing everything to make sure she was fed and gaining. Eventually Elsie went back to drinking “from the tap,” but her weight gain issues continued. As she got older she started refusing the bottle and also refused whole or pureed foods. If I didn’t nurse her, she didn’t eat or receive any nourishment. I was trapped, forced to provide calories and sustenance through my breasts. By the time Elsie was two her weight gain and feeding issues resolved, but she was connected to my breasts as if they were her second mother, offering her love, support, and unconditional love. If I refused the breast she dissolved into unconsolable sobs, which eventually turned to two-year-old anger, complete with tiny nails clawing at my chest.
Recently, I reached out to my local La Leche League, hoping that they could do exactly the opposite of what they were trained to do: teach me to get my baby off my chest. I was advised to take it slow, cut out one feed each day, allowing for a gentle and slow weaning. I knew that I needed to somehow come up with a practical plan that would help me to put this advice into practice and decided that I’d start saying no to nursing in public. Luckily I live in an accepting community (remember: hippie town) and have never felt uncomfortable about pulling my shirt down to console or feed my child. But I still wanted some freedom, and this felt like the right way to do it. What I didn’t expect was how my times my two-year-old would scream “MAMA BOOBIES”—at the library, in the middle of a church pew, while grocery shopping, or at a friend’s house. I’ve tried to retrain her: “No, Elsie, mama milk.” But so far my efforts have been fruitless.
Breastfeeding a toddler (and even a preschooler) hasn’t been all terrible. I’ve loved those quiet moments, when my growing child looks like the tiny baby that exists only in memories. I appreciate the fact that a big bump to the head or a scrape to their knees can be instantly consoled by a breast full of milk, the ultimate comforter. I know I’ve saved a lot of money over the years. And I wonder, how dire would Elsie’s health condition become if I didn’t have the milk to sustain her? When I ask myself that question, I nearly dissolve into tears. I don’t regret the pain or trials extended breastfeeding have caused if it’s meant filling Elsie’s belly and keeping her safe.
I became a mother not knowing what it meant to nurture and raise children, with idyllic visions that came crashing down the moment breast milk soaked through my shirt. I’m forever grateful that I have the opportunity to nurse, knowing that not everyone has that chance. But I also feel an overwhelming desire to tell the truth: that extended breastfeeding isn’t for everyone, even those of us who end up on this particular road. And once you’re on the path, it’s hard to get off. If I figure out how to magically wean a determined two-year-old, I’ll let you know.