It’s been more than three months since my son weaned himself off breastfeeding, “milkies” as we call it. He had been gradually losing interest, which was surprising to me as milkies were his favorite thing since his first hours out of the womb. But over the summer, he stopped asking for it at the usual times. I’d either offer it and he’d squeal as if he was being given a surprise present. Or I wouldn’t mention it and he’d remember hours later, ravenous as if he was coming out of a fast. He’d scramble towards me, legs and arms in all directions—“MILKIES!!!”
Breastfeeding (or pumping—either way, your body is WORKING!) is a roller coaster ride. Ups and downs, swings and standstills, depletion and overflowing, battle and rest, comfort and discomfort, easy and frustrating. My breastfeeding journey with my son was all of the above. But despite my frequent complaints, I needed it just as much as he did. In the very early days, during my recovery from a cesarean, I was able to provide for him from my comfy perch in my bed. The snow was falling outside in the December cold, but we were snuggled up, skin-to-skin, and cozy. He was getting all the nourishment he needed while my body was healing. This time in our little bubble helped us build an incredible bond. Inevitably, he built a routine of wanting milkies around the clock. It could be draining, but those feeding sessions also meant that I could sit still and maybe even close my eyes for a mini rest. Something any parent can be grateful for.
Because my son wanted to eat constantly, the demand triggered prolactin which sent the message to my body to produce more and more milk. Prolactin also triggers oxytocin, which is often referred to as the “love hormone.” So while I was producing prolactin and breastmilk non-stop, my oxytocin levels were sky-high. Looking back on this time, I’m grateful for that because my postpartum anxiety was quietly raging inside. The increased oxytocin helped me be present in those scrumptious, lovey milkies moments instead of giving into the panic sessions of visualizing imaginary freak accidents. Milkies became a cacoon of sorts—isolation, security, and comfort. And with his first year in 2020 during a global pandemic, he and I didn’t wander far out of our cacoon…even when tempted.
We continued breastfeeding into his second year, past the 12-month mark I had assumed would be when we’d wean. I couldn’t even imagine giving up that bond when his birthday rolled around. It made me feel uneasy just to think about it. But then my dad was diagnosed with cancer. His life expectancy was 3-5 years. And then it wasn’t. It became any week, any month, who knows. Up to that point, I had never spent a night away from my son. But there I was booking a flight to Cincinnati that would depart two hours later. I didn’t have the time to pump. My husband reminded me our son would be ok. He’d been heavily on solids for over a year. He certainly wouldn’t go hungry. And he didn’t! But I was an anxious mess with painfully engorged boobs who spent 48 hours by her dad’s hospital bed thinking he might not live to say goodbye. While also panicking about being away from my son for the first time. And taking breaks when I couldn’t take the physical pain anymore to hand express in the bathroom down the hall (my hand pump broke the first time I used it on the whirlwind trip).
While prolactin increases oxytocin, it inhibits ovulation. So a person’s hormone swings of estrogen and progesterone aren’t as extreme or intense as they are regularly. My cycle came back when my son turned 13 months old (a whole year of period-free bliss!). And then the breastfeeding started to wean so the prolactin levels began to decrease. My typical hormone swings started to creep back in monthly. If you plan for your wean, you can ease the shift in your body and emotions with diet, exercise, vitamins, etc. But I was distracted at this time in our lives. I was also in denial that we were weaning at all. I flew out to Cincinnati one more time and a week later, my dad was dead.
The weeks after my dad died, I really needed the comfort and security of our milkies cacoon. But my son did not. He was too full of energy to sit still for breastfeeding. And I wasn’t producing enough milk to make it easy for him, so he would grow impatient. My boobs were deflated and hanging from my chest. And I was grieving. My oxytocin levels were low and my energy was low. One day I woke up and just knew, this was the end of our journey. I offered him milkies and we snuggled up close. I stroked his hair as he looked up and kept eye contact with me, as he used to when he was a baby. After about five minutes he unlatched, smiled at me, and scooted off to play with a toy. And that was our last milkies.