Man, this fluid is… flu-id!
The boy’s top two teeth, center, have poked through, the two flanking are sliding into position, and his shirts are soaked through.
I decided a long time ago to pretend it’s my saliva anyway, and therefore not gross. I mean, given where he’d been, once upon a time, inside me in a pouch of his own pee and all.
Today I just marveled at it. The glistening globs that splatter all over the wooden staircase that he climbs over and over and over again. The long strings that land in our clean laundry… The boy is absolutely fascinated with in/out. Things inside of boxes, bags, drawers, cabinets, pulling them out, dumping them over. The laundry basket on the floor of the bedroom is a very popular item. He’s also using it like one of those walker/push toys, sliding it a bit and taking a few steps. (I suppose it’s time to get him a real push toy.)
He is pulling himself up, climbing up and over just about anything, especially me and Scott.
His favorite new trick I shouldn’t tell you because you’ll think I’m completely insane. But I have to tell you. If I’m lying down, he likes to nurse standing on his hind legs, so to speak, in a pike position, hands on my rib cage, face in boob. The downward-facing dog yoga pose. He also likes to nurse while seated on my lap, facing me, or standing up, if I’m sitting in a low enough chair.
I know. WHEN am I going to wean? I thought it was, like, three-year-olds who tug clothing aside, reach in, and grab. Maybe Jonah’s advanced.
Some babies give up the boob themselves. I met a woman while I was traveling recently. I was rocking and pacing around with Jonah asleep in the Ergo on my back, she was amongst her family’s prodigious pile of luggage — they were from New Zealand, traveling around California for a month — sitting with her teenaged son who was wearing these great tennis shoes printed with a Mexican Loteria pattern — which has nothing to do with this story.
Anyway, we were all waiting together for a long time at this VERY SLOW rental car establishment and she and I started chatting. She asked how old Jonah was, asked if I was breastfeeding, talked about how that’s so wonderful, so important. And then she relayed the story of her son’s weaning.
“He was fourteen months old. One day, while he was nursing, he bit my nipple, looked up at me and laughed, jumped down from my lap and ran off to play. That was it.”
Somehow, I suspect for Jonah it won’t be that easy.
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