My boobs hurt.

I'm weaning her.

After 17 months, it is time. I've got nearly nothing left, and she varies from barely nursing at all for days to sucking on me with such ferocity that I feel like my boobs have been drawn through a keyhole with a crochet hook. She doesn't need it anymore, physically. She gets plenty of nourishment from all the things she eats, and we're learning her likes and dislikes more and more as she gets older. Likes: fruit (especially pomegranate, which she calls "apple"), kidney beans, chocolate, anything we're eating that she can't have, black coffee and diet Coke. Dislikes: meat (except ham), little things like rice that are hard to pick up, tomato sauce (but not ketchup--that she loves). Can't eat: dairy, apparently. But a little cheese just yields a few farts so we let that go sometimes.

Anyway.

The past few days have been hard. Her dad's been on duty, going to her in the middle of the night and laying her down for sleep. He's cuddled her at 3 AM, brought her bottles of warmed soymilk, and soothed her tears while I laid in the other room feeling like I repeatedly got hit in the chest with a sack of old boots. At first, there were many tantrums when she'd ask, "Nuh? Nuh?" and I'd have to say no and try to distract her. It took a few days, but the requests come less frequently, and she gives up more easily when I say no.

Today, she woke at 5:30 and no Dad-soothing was good enough. She joined me in the big bed, draping her body over me, tucking her head against my cheek, with a shudder and a gulp. I laid there, relishing the snuggles, missing the closeness. She fell asleep, and I waited until I knew she was really down before gliding her off into the crook of my arm, closing my eyes, and letting go. We slept together like that until 8. On the way down the stairs, she clung to me, hugging me tight.

Today, she's reclaimed me. Not the same, but still all hers. Most of the day has been spent sitting in my lap, pointing to the laptop screen, flipping through magazines, reading books, watching "Gabba!", eating my food, trying to steal my diet Coke, kissing, hugging, poking, and loving. Standing between me and the kitchen counter, pushing me away and then demanding "up!" Dancing. Trying to climb me and startling with surprise when I scream "OW!" as she hits Mommy's ouch bags. Begging for a bite of my pickle. And finally collapsing against me when she's just too exhausted to move. After trying to nap with her, I finally had to do tough love and let her scream until she passed out. She just couldn't let me go.

She's still my baby, my little girl.

Confusion

I went in to the Physician's assistant today. "Why are you here?" the nurse asked. "Migraine. Day 6," I said, and was surprised to hear a little catch in my throat.

No, I'm not in horrible pain this time. But still. 6 days is too long. And it reminds me of the time when I had the never-ending migraine. The 3 month one. 4 ER visits. 1 CT scan. 9.9 on the pain scale. Morphine. Blood on the brain? (No). One side of my body going numb. Not sleeping, for days and days. Not eating because any spice made me sick. Then eating bland food constantly just because then I couldn't taste the tinfoil in my mouth. The rusty icepick in my eye, twisting.

Not a fun trip down memory lane.

The PA listened to my story, convoluted and twisted and full of "oh, and one time?" and "uh, I forgot, I also tried this and this and this..." She didn't know what to do for me. I've been down this road before and it looks like I'm headed there again.

She set me up with a neurologist for next week. I don't know what they'll be able to do, but at least the ball is rolling. The PA said there wasn't much I could take because of breastfeeding, and wondered when I was going to stop. "I want to make it to a year," I said, "but..."

A year seemed so long back then. Now? It's almost tomorrow. Too soon. I'm not ready to think about stopping yet. She's just a little baby, isn't she? She still needs me.

So today she gave me an injection of Toradol. I've had them before, and they can help. I got several decent hours, and Dr. B even commented. "Your face, you look... like you must feel a little better," he said. I could still taste the tinfoil, but it was better.

But, she had cautioned, I really shouldn't breastfeed Rowan on this. Pump and dump time.

Fine. Since I had fed her just before the appointment, I figured she could wait until her dad got home to have some milk. He had fed her bottles before, and he could probably get her to take it this time. I fed her solids--turkey and rice with sweet potatoes and peas, and applesauce. I carefully thawed 7 oz. of breastmilk, pumped back in October, and prepared a bottle. Handed it to him, and left the room to do the dishes, so she would eat.

And just like when I tried last week, she wouldn't take the bottle.

She was fine as a newborn, fine as a 4 month old, but now that she's 9 months +, she doesn't want anything to do with it. She won't take a sippy cup, either. With both of them, she just plays with the nipple or spout, smiling and biting at it, but not actually sucking anything out of it.

"What do I do?" he asked.

"She needs it," I said. "She hasn't had any since 1:30, and she's got to be thirsty, and needs her milk." I remembered what a friend's husband had done while she worked and he was the at home parent with the kid who wouldn't take the bottle. "You'll just have to throw it in."

I brought out a Tupperware cup, a relic from my own childhood, with a curved edge. "Pour a little in the cup at a time, and kind of throw it in her mouth when you can." Rowan loves to drink from a real cup, but she doesn't really get the whole gravity thing yet, and is pretty sure that by bending her head down toward the cup, the liquid will enter her mouth from the downward angle. It doesn't really work that way.

I watched him as he tried to get more milk in her mouth than down her pajamas. He failed miserably, but since there was 7 oz. in the bottle and she usually only drinks around 3 at a feeding now, I wasn't too worried. He carried her to the kitchen sink, stripped her to her diaper, and washed her off. A pair of clean pajamas, a dry diaper (not sure if it was pee or milk or water, but it was wet), and she was tucked into bed.

And here I sit, with so many thoughts swirling through my mind. Worried and confused and concerned. Wanting her to grow up and be independent and to stay little and need me forever. Wishing my body wasn't doing this to me, again, because it keeps me from being what I want to be, for her. Angry, that it's yet another thing I can't control or protect her from.

And hoping, that maybe by tomorrow it will be gone. At least for a little while.