It was the morning you turned three months old. It was a quiet morning. A perfect morning. I was awoken to your little grunts of hunger and the light shining past the curtains. I picked you up and laid you closer to me. You began to nurse, just like every morning before that. And just like every morning, I felt a strong sense of peace and happiness. My body alone had kept you alive and growing for a year, and I was proud of that. Although those first few weeks of nursing you were some of the hardest of my life, we figured it out together and I had grown to love it. I would have nursed you forever, but for reasons that don’t even matter I knew it was time to come to an end. I had started the weaning process about a week or so prior. I’m really not sure if I was weaning you or weaning myself. I didn’t want to stop. And I didn’t know at the time that it was definitely the last time, but in a way… I did know. And a lump forms in my stomach and throat everytime I think of it as I hold back the tears.
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