electric boogaloo

Graham is weaning. This is not a mutual decision — this morning he filed formal papers with the State Attorney General’s office requesting that he be awarded full legal custody of my boobs “…and their endless, magical contents” on the grounds that I am no longer of sound mind and therefore cannot be considered mentally fit to govern their usage.

But despite whatever the judge may decide, which I’m assuming will depend on whether or not he/she is a LLL leader and/or whether he or she resents being weaned from his own mother’s teat too early, it really is time. If I were one of those bizarre outerspace people who keep their kids on any sort of schedule, I might continue on a few more months. But the crazy go-with-the-groove way it is now means that any time he remembers about the boobs he goes, “Hey, you know what I’d rather be doing right now? Getting me some of that boobie milk!”

He throws down his toys and rudely demands access to the inside of my shirt.

I’ve heard that many toddlers invent adorable names for this request: Mimi, neenee, Babas, Milkies, Gajonga Juice, and so forth. My child has never been so subtle. He used to point at my chest and shout “Eat. Eat. EAT.” which was funny at home but less so at Kevin’s company Christmas party, while we were talking to his boss’ boss and trying to make a graceful exit.

Now he doesn’t even give me that much courtesy. He pulls down the front of my shirt and dives in with his entire body. In case I’m not paying attention and still don’t know what he wants, he’ll helpfully say “Boobie! Mama, baby. Boobie.”

I don’t know. I’m not sexualizing breastfeeding in any way; that’s stupid and if you take what I’m about to say that way, you’re stupid. But I do have this general awareness that I’m raising boys here, and boys shouldn’t grow up in the habit of thinking that they can rudely demand access to a woman’s… well, anything. No means no! And “not now” means not now. And “can you at least wait until I’m done going to the bathroom?” Means seriously, dude, GET OUT OF MY SHIRT.

I’m the same way with Nicolaus and his demanding to climb on me. He calls it cuddling, as in fake-pout, “Awww… I just wanted to cuddle with you.” but I promise you it’s climbing. Nicolaus hates actual cuddling. He’ll tolerate hugging if it is brief and if he is given written notice in advance of the hug, but cuddling? Fuck you. But he loves to climb on me, especially when I’m holding Graham because, well, you know. Honestly I don’t know why people think you need a bigger house once you have kids because our entire family takes up four square feet. Including the dog. As I move through the house, they’re all firmly adhered to my legs and if we didn’t have wood floors I’d think it was maybe monstrous static cling.

So I’m weaning Graham, at least during the day. It’s going alright. My formal approach has been to tell him “no, no sorry, all gone!” and “That’s for night-night.”

On Friday that made him cry.

On Saturday that made him cry.

On Sunday, he came up with a joke. He’d run over to me, tug at my shirt and say, “Naow-nnno. Boobie dadone. HAHAHAHA.”

Then he’d grin and lean forward and make pretend eating-smacking noises. And laugh and shake his head and say nnnno.

Then he scrunched his face up and he FAKE CRIED. Hooooooohooooo. Naow-no. Hahahaha.

Like I’ve said since he was four months old: I am almost certain this baby is mocking me.