Today at 7:45 AM, my boobs did something useful for probably the last time. I say probably because you never know what might happen in the future, or how you might change your definition of useful. Barring any plane crashes in the ocean where we run short of flotation devices my days as a fully-functioning mammal are officially done.

In a way it is sad. Those were nice, quiet, cuddly moments sometimes… you know, whenever Nicolaus wasn’t climbing to the top of my head and singing the why-do-you-always-have-to-feed-that-stupid-baby song, or the phone wasn’t ringing just out of my reach, or the dog wasn’t choosing that exact moment to have an extra-fancy seizure or something. But really, they were mostly nice, quiet, cuddly moments.

But in another, more accurate way it isn’t sad at all. It marks the dawn of a magical new era: one where my children sleep. Like at night.

Last night — and those of you with babies who have slept through the night since before they were born because of your amazing skills at being better than me in almost every possible way and that isn’t sarcasm, seriously YOU KICK my mothering butt, can be extra smug when they read what I’m about to say — Graham slept all night long.

Did you hear me, motherfuckers? All night.

Without waking up for me to pat him back to sleep.

Without waking up to consume anything.

No screaming. No crying.

And all of this astounding nothing took place in his own bed. Without another human touching him.

He woke up at 7 in a glorious mood. We took a shower. As I was getting out of the shower, he looked up. “Boo-bie! Boobeeee”

Like hey! You said they were all gone… what the hell sick game is this?

I quickly grabbed my bra.

He looked disappointed. Then he shrugged his hands up, making his little sign for where’d it go? “Boobie?”

So I went ahead and let him nurse one last time, like a big stupid annoying sappy breastfeeding dork. It was peaceful and wonderful. Almost as peaceful and wonderful as sleeping all night long is going to be tonight.

I’m joking of course. The sleeping will be WAY more peaceful and wonderful.

Shit shit shit shit shit. You hear of other people’s family members discovering their blog and those family members being all oh my god why are you telling the world all about that thing with the dog’s penis and your depression and my alcoholism and Susan’s nose job and everything else? Or even just haha found yer blog… great stuff! You’re fired. And I want a divorce. And you are no longer our daughter.

Well I don’t know for sure, but it seems that Graham has somehow found this site. Specifically this entry, where I talk about the brain defect I suffer from which will not allow me to let him cry for more than thirty seconds.

So the weaning is not going well.

During the day we’re alright. It’s easy to distract him when I’m awake and clear-minded enough to offer exciting alternatives like a cup of milk or a toy car or a trained baby Indian elephant. But at night, you know… it’s dark and I’m asleep and man alive my brain will do anything for more sleep since the advent of the early bedtime/horrible morning waking up time. Greedy brain. Around one in the morning he wakes up screaming because he had a nightmare about me not giving him exactly what he wants all the time every second. Baby. Crying… I stumble to the boys’ room and look at him. A tiny part of my mind goes, ERROR. DO NOT PICK HIM UP.

I pick him up and bring him to our bed. There there, it was only a bad dream…

I am an idiot. There is no end in sight. More later. Baby hungry.

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.

I can’t move.

There’s a snoring, rumpled up ball of a baby resting against me, and behind me his brother is – well durn, he’s snoring too. If my children are reading this in the future, I’d like them to please note that on this fine January morning – and I have felt this way since before dawn – I very much need to pee. But I’m holding it because if I move the whole thing will fall apart. I’m like that last Jenga piece, or the supporting wall of my parents’ house that my dad almost knocked down, or whatever it was Achebe was talking about.

If I move you boys will wake up. One of you will cry and the other will be cold for a tiny second because me getting out of bed would create a thermal vaccuum and would cause me to move the blanket a little and I know how you hate when people move the blanket a little, rightfully so I must add. Blanket moving sons of whore bitches. Then your father will wake up because of all the sudden chaos and howling and all, and he’ll say “What in the WORLD?” – and then maybe be grumpy because no one likes to wake up that way.

So take note. Need to pee, super bad, not doing it because of how much I love you. And maybe a little because you guys are jerks when you first wake up but mostly because of the love.

When Graham is sick he doesn’t talk like Fred Savage, but he does other cute sick baby things so I forgive him for this failing. He paws at his mouth and says, “Uh-OH. Uh-OHHH” — throat hurts. He messes with his ears and swipes his hands over his crazy hair like he can wipe the crummy feeling off. And even when he feels like complete crap, he makes little baby jokes and laughs his funny little I’m-mocking-you laugh. It’s different than his giggle or his noisy grin or his belly laugh or his please-chase-me-and-tickle-me squeal. It’s this, “Ha-ha-ha-ha.” He says it. HAHAHAHA. And it means, “Haha, you are a dumbass.”
Do you have any idea what it feels like to be condescended to by a fifteen month old?

Yesterday he was nursing, and yes I do plan to wean him sometime before he starts school, we were almost there but then he got sick and it was breaking his tiny sick pathetic manipulative heart so whatever. He was congested though, so eating and having to breathe through his nose was causing him to make all kinds of snorting snuffling racket. I looked down at my wilted, red-cheeked, sad little guy. Snuffle-snort, gasp, snuffleruffle.

He stopped eating to listen. The noise stopped. He went back to eating and it started again – snort snufflewump snort snort.

He stopped again and grinned, “Wuff! Wuff!” he yipped in imitation of the snorting, “PUPPY.” Then he laughed, Hahahaha. So he’s doing his best to enjoy the whole thing.

I am too. When Nicolaus was very young I developed a mantra for these times, when the baby is sick and the house is a wreck and everything is hard and all of it is overwhelming:
Give in to the suckiness.

It doesn’t work long term, but for days when everything is going to suck I find it helps so much to stop wasting precious energy fighting it. Just let it all suck. Chuck the ambitious to-do list, let it all go and just resolve to survive the day. If everyone is still alive by bedtime, the day was a success.

The last week has been an exercise in giving in to the suckiness. But we’re all still alive, and we all still mostly like each other and everything is basically alright even though I’m surrounded by boys who are snoring like crazy and I’m going to die if I don’t pee soon.

I’ll admit that after my painful trainwreck of a feeding experience with Nicolaus, I was a little bitter and grumpy about the whole boobie feeding thing, to the point that with my second child I didn’t take it day by day… I took it minute by minute, feeding by feeding. But now at 14 months with no exit strategy, I get it now. I’m a believer. So I am again volunteering my marketing expertise to help the LLL and other boobie feeding advocates to offer valuable information for new mothers. You’re welcome!

22 REASONS TO BREASTFEED
1. You’re shallow and you want to lose weight really fast after you have a baby

2. You’re too fucking poor to afford formula

3. The internet will judge you if you don’t do it.

4. And so will your doctor.

5. And the nurses in the maternity ward.

6. And your realtor.

7. Breastpads look AWESOME. I wish I had known these were out there before I wasted all those years stuffing uncomfortable, unflattering toilet paper down my bra.

8. Researchers have not been able to show that breastfeeding doesn’t give you magical powers.

9. Instantly makes you a way better mother than all those ignorant formula bitches.

10. You’re kinda into pain.

11. Done correctly, you can look like you’re doing something really important while you take a nap.

12. For a lot of women, let down is super tingly.

13. “I feed him – YOU change his diapers.”

14. Face it: You’re too lazy mix formula correctly. I mean use the exact amount of water and powder and everything every time? Are they serious?

15. You get to be condescending to your grandma.

16. While lactacting, you’ll be qualified for acting jobs starring a whole new level of kinky porn.

17. You live in a third world country where the water is tainted with donkey shit, which is unsafe to drink and lacks proper nutrition for a growing infant.

18. Opens up many new litigation opportunities. Go into any restaurant or coffee shop and feed your baby. It’s a numbers game… the more you nurse in public the better your chances of being thrown out and being able to sue the ever loving shit out of a mega corporation. May not work in hippie towns like Seattle and Austin where no one cares what you do with your boobs.

19. Breastmilk is useful for many things beyond feeding your child. It can soothe open wounds, cure eye infections, and help you play hilarious beverage-related pranks on people.

20. One recent study suggests that by the age of seven, nearly 30% of all breastfed babies have the ability to fly.

21. Research shows that feeding formula to a child leads to agression and increased instances of ADHD, familial conflict, resentment towards parents, and depression.

22. No wait. Sorry, that’s spanking. Or television. Whatever. You monster.