My ode to breastfeeding.

The strangest thing happened this week. Dresden has been sick, in and out of the doctor's office every single day for the last 11 days, and we're all just run ragged and haggard and raw. My poor little guy was so congested that he couldn't even eat. I tried and tried to get him to nurse. I did everything. He just couldn't breathe. I didn't get him to nurse at all for almost 24 hours. And you know what? I cried the whole day.

It wasn't just that I was worried about him, although I know that was part of it. It was more than that. It was my father saying, "Give him a bottle already. He's done with breasts. They're his crutch." It was Dallas saying, "Maybe he's ready to wean." It was my mother telling me that I spontaneously stopped nursing at 4 months. It was realizing that someday, some not so distant day, I really will stop breastfeeding.

Now, I do still plan on breastfeeding until Dresden is ready to wean himself--or until he can walk up to me, pull my shirt down, and attach himself. I know that a healthy baby who has been breastfeeding successfully normally won't wean until around a year. I know. But the realization that this is it--that I have maybe six more months of breastfeeding--stung. And not like when small fry bites me. (Although, really, ow.)

Why? Because breastfeeding feels right to me. I have to make a thousand and one choices all day long: is he ready to be up for the day? does he need to be changed? does his poop look normal? should he have avocado? or does he need the extra calcium in yogurt? what's the weather like? what should he wear? why is his spit-up neon? can I get the stain out? who will watch him while I grade papers? is he sleepy or do his eyes itch? is he allergic to something? where do I put him while I pee? why is he crying? is he hungry? sleepy? wet? do his teeth hurt? does he have gas? AND YOU KNOW WHAT? It's exhausting, but the time I spend breastfeeding him is blissfully simple. I don't have to second guess myself at all. If he's nursing, I am doing everything right, and all of that noise just stops.

A few people have suggested that my decision to breastfeed is restrictive or that I'm accepting old-fashioned gender roles, like I'm betraying the feminist cause. Intellectually, I do understand that line of reasoning, but...are you kidding me? Being a mother is the most empowering thing I've ever done. My body is amazing! It made a baby. It birthed a baby. It is nurturing a baby. What can men do? Pee standing up? LAME! Men are lame!

(Except Dresden. He's impressive and great.)