The Boy’s done pretty well with weaning. The few times he called for caca (what he inexplicably calls nursing), he would quickly forget if I asked if he wanted to draw or talk about sharks. He only wanted to nurse when he was sleepy and, shortly before turning 2, he’d turned into an, “I can sleep anywhere, during anything, in any position” toddler. Nursing was becomeing less and less necessary.

A couple of days ago, he was having a particularly hard time going to sleep and wouldn’t stop screaming about caca despite my attempts to redirect. So, I told him that we could try it, and made sure he knew I wasn’t sure it was working anymore.

He tried the first side (latching okay after having a particularly hard time trying to remember how to), said, “Nope, let me try the other side caca.”

He tried the second side, “No…Too bad. Now you can hold me.”

And I swear to God I nearly cried. I tried to spend the next few days thinking it was okay. He pretty much stopped asking for caca or caught himself when he started, asking to be held instead. He had figured out that caca wasn’t working, and so had I. While he seemed okay with it, I am really not.

I’ve tried to ignore feeling crappy about it for the past couple of days but I came very close to being a sobby mess while making breakfast this morning. After all the work I put into being able to breastfeed, I feel like it was suddenly taken from me. Unfairly taken away from me.

I shouldn’t feel that way. I spent the previous 2 weeks being proud that he wasn’t trying to nurse constantly. I watched my breasts become less and less swollen as the days went on. I had to expect they’d be dry eventually.

I didn’t, though. I didn’t expect there to be a time where he’d try it and there’d be absolutely nothing. I didn’t expect such a clear and concise end of such an important and tumultuous time together. It would’ve been easier if it had faded. I don’t do well with abrupt endings.

As I sit here rambling and trying not to cry, The Boy’s laying with his head on my shoulder, proclaiming, “I love you, mommy. Let’s read a book in bed before nap time.” While my immediate internal response is to stifle the gigantic blubber that’s building in my chest because that sentence recently had “caca” in place of “book”, I also have to try to remember that this is just a new chapter. We cuddle instead of caca. We talk instead of nurse. He snuggles into my shoulder instead of my chest. It’s different, but it’s not the end.

And then I think of that smile he’d give when he was nursing. That great, big, loving grin and…well, I’ve got to go track down some tissues. This is not going to be easy on me.

Two years ago, my sweet little man was born. Two years. He’s growing so quickly, it’s a little shocking. I look at pictures like that and can’t imagine how someone so little and fragile could’ve become the wonderful, smart, holy freaking terror he is just two years later.

We asked The Boy what he wanted to do on his birthday and, despite my many attempts to put Chuck E. Cheese into his head for God knows what masochistic reason, he clearly stated that, “I want to go to Sweet Tomatoes and then Grandma’s house.” So that is what we did. He also stated, very clearly, “I do not like Happy Birthday.” I always hated being sung to, too, so I was more than willing to oblige.

My mom, the husband and I stayed up most of the night making the most horrific looking (and heavenly tasting)Word World cake ever known to man. I will not share the images of “Pig” looking as if he’s attempting to hump “Sheep”, or “Ant” looking like a victim of some God awful crime. Suffice to say, the boy could not figure out who any of the characters were and they all ended up in the trash at the end of the day.

Ignoring my stern warning to avoid it, my slightly sadistic mom family decided to sing happy birthday to him. I have a feeling each year we will get a picture like this one because there will be at least that one reveler that believes the Boy really does enjoy the singing and that I’m just making it up. And each year said reveler will quickly realize that he is wrong. Very wrong.

Somehow, despite the fact that I was the only person not singing. That I was the only person not involved with the whole conspiracy to horrify him, he remained angry with me through the entire meal.

And afterwards.

Apparently, it was my job to control these people and I was doing a horrible, horrible job.

He resorted to yelling at them himself. I think this was something along the lines of, “HEY! BACK OFF!” or maybe it was just, “That’s miiiiiine!”

Grandma, clearly, did not take him seriously.

He enjoyed all of his presents, immensely. He got to ride his new tricycle around grandma and grandpa’s neighborhood with nana, popo and the rest of us in tow. He got to watch the water at the pool. He had enough cake that he darn near passed out the moment we got him into the car seat.

We came home and he laid on my arm, as he usually does before bed, and we talked about the day he was born. We talked about the hospital. We talked about the nurses. He fell asleep after telling me, “I’m two, mommy. I was born and now I’m two.”

Happy birthday, sweet boy. You were born and now you’re two. We love you.