One for the History Books

A few weeks ago, our local parents magazine started advertising their annual Family Fun Festival (go ahead, say that three times quickly).  The shindig itself was free, but way at the bottom of the ad, I saw that there was an option to buy tickets to a character breakfast with–wait for it–Clifford (the big red dog?!) and Curious George.  It was like Saoirse’s fairy godmother was personally waving a red flag at me, shouting, “Hellooooo, lady, look at the sheer joy we have concocted for the sole pleasure of your young daughter!”  I did a happy dance, took out our much-abused bank card and bought us a little spot of happiness.  David calmly said, “Oh, that sounds cool.  Saoirse will love it.”  Saoirse saw the ad lying on a table where I had cut it out, grabbed it, and carried it around with her for five days. So, Saturday, we–I, David, and the mighty Quinlan, of course–took Saoirse to meet her hero.  I was a basket of nerves, because she’d been talking about meeting Clifford–you know, bigger-than-a-house Clifford…

A Conversation

The scene: Saoirse’s room, at bedtime. We’re reading a book when Widget, the Tailless Wonder, comes slinking into the room, presumably either to say hello or complain about not having been fed yet.  Saoirse squints at the cat, and then… SK:  Mom, why doesn’t Widget have a tail? I pause, weighing my decision. Me:  Well, sweetie, she was born with a tail, but got into an accident. Decision, made. SK:  Why? Me:  Well, one night, before you were born, she didn’t listen to Mommy and Daddy and ran out of the house.  We wanted her to stay close, but she disobeyed us and ran away. SK:  What happened? Me:  She was hit by a car and lost her tail.  That’s why we always want you to listen to us and hold our hand when we’re by a street or in a parking lot.  So that you stay safe. SK:  Oh. She gives Widget a long, quiet look, then we go back to her book. I am a terrible mother…

Excuse Me While I Weep Into My Freedom

This afternoon I put Quinn down for her nap after lunch. What’s the big deal, you ask? Well, friend, I didn’t nurse her first. Just lunch, books, nap.  Again, you inquire: so why all your wailing and gnashing of teeth? Because, silly. I’m weaning her from the great milk factory known as my bosoms.  It’s a moment to which I’ve been looking forward for at least six months.  It’s a time that I’ve imagined as somewhere, out on the horizon–a beautiful sunset that I can see, but not quite touch. And it’s here. It’s finally here. My daughter now longer needs me as her primary source of nutrition, and I am free. So, of course I want to cry. I’m a year-and-done kind of breastfeeder. I nurse instead of giving formula, because that’s what works for us, and I’m lucky enough to be able to do it. But once I get the okay to introduce milk to the wee one, man, I’m outta there.  No extended breastfeeding for me, no…