At 10 months and counting, Toby is attached to my breasts as though they emit oxygen. He is much smaller for his age than Jack was, but also more coordinated in his movements. That is to say, he has now negotiated the exact sequence of movements necessary to go from sitting on my hip to laying sideways in my arms and lifting my shirt to grant himself access to a ready snack.
Needless to say, this is less than thrilling for me when I happen to be, say, pushing a shopping cart full of groceries down the checkout line. The baby-faced cashier really does not need to be exposed to my armor-like nursing bra while he's scanning my frozen pizzas.
After a few less-than-totally-successful attempts to get Toby to take a bottle of breastmilk, he finally conceded to drink from a disposable sippy cup. At least ocassionally.
He does not, however, so far appear to be fooled into thinking that this is an acceptable substitute for a big, soft, boob. As evidenced last night, when he grew claws, fangs, and inordinate amounts of fur. My sweet little baby morphed into a rampaging beast who tracked my mammaries like a trained bloodhound. There was a victory howl when he caught the scent, and I swear he growled as they neared striking distance.
Then he nursed for about 40 seconds, decided it was time to morph back into Baby Tobin, and crawled sweetly away to explore an empty box. Leaving me feeling wounded, vaguely used, and uncomfortably full of let-down milk.
Something tells me that - for all of his protests? The child isn't really that interested in what I have to offer. He's just in it for the hunt, and the thrill of conquest. After that, he's immediately bored with the whole thing.
Isn't that just like a man?
tags: weaning
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