I’ve neglected to write this post for months. In fact, I haven’t even uttered (pun intended) the word breastfeeding on the blog in quite some time (September 2008). I’ve struggled with how to say it, when to say it and even why I felt like I needed to say it. The fact is that LittleBrother weaned awhile ago.

I won’t give you an exact date or even the exact length of time of his nursing career. I will say that it was over one year but under two years. (Obviously as his second birthday is just under two months from today.) I will only say that much about the length of time. Why? Some will say that anything over the year mark was too long. Some will say that anything under the two year mark was not long enough. And I will tell both camps to fluff off. Kindly, of course.

Our nursing experience was wonderful. Once we got his tongue tie fixed and learned to ignore the doctors regarding slow weight gain, it was smooth sailing. I could have kept right on nursing for much longer. LittleBrother had other plans. At first, when he stopped, I thought we were going through the inevitable nursing strike. Those happen. I was prepared for it. And then it didn’t stop with the strike. He got some pumped milk for awhile, in a sippy cup because we just never did bottles. Plus, he wanted to be like BigBrother. But he absolutely refused the breast. Pushing, hitting. Screaming, demanding. “Milk. Cup.” He didn’t want to stop to be with me. He wanted to be just like his older brother. He didn’t have time to snuggle and cuddle with me anymore.

I continued to offer for awhile. I continued to pump for awhile, watching my supply tank over a three week period. I resigned myself that it was over when a month had passed and he had fought me any time I had offered. I don’t even recall the date of our last legitimate nursing session; I wasn’t expecting it to be the last. I was expecting months more of time alone with my last baby. Not so. I’m sure it was a lovely time together.

Then the guilt hit, of course, when the frozen breast milk supply ran out and we switched fully to whole milk. And he had some intestinal issues and was diagnosed with mild lactose intolerance. Great, I thought. If I had just forced the issue, if I had just gotten him back to the breast, we wouldn’t be having these problems! Of course, we would have in the end. I found out after that diagnosis that I make a lot of meals with milk. At the worst of his issue, even mashed potatoes made with milk resulted in a horrible intestinal problem. I learned to cook without milk for quite some time. I kept beating myself up over the issue but I learned. I kept hoping that our doctor was right, that somewhere near the age of two he might outgrow the lactose intolerance.

We had been planning on waiting until the month of his birthday to reintroduce milk products. Then I accidentally made a huge meal with milk and cheese and basically just a volcano of dairy. Mommy brain implosion, apparently. After we ate and even the day after, LittleBrother didn’t have his normal explosive reaction. A few days later, we offered him some of the cottage cheese that BigBrother eats every day with lunch. He liked it. No reaction. We continued to offer the cottage cheese while on vacation last month. No reaction. Upon returning home from said vacation, we offered a glass of milk. He drank it. He liked it. No reaction. No reactions at all for the past month. In fact, he’s had better bowel movements since returning to milk than he had on the rice milk. Color us shocked.

Cooking is easier again. As usual, he’s my good eater so he’s been enjoying all of the recipes that I had to avoid during our months of anti-milk propaganda. He’s happy, not that he ever wasn’t, doing things just like his brother. My guilt is lessening. I really felt horrible for the interim months when we kept dealing with stomach issues. I kept beating myself up for not sticking it out, for not forcing the issue. Not that I feel that I could have; he was determined to keep up with his brother. I was just weighing him down.

I’m happy to see him as a very independent toddler. I know that our months of breastfeeding and bonding helped that along. I do miss our moments together but, more so than his brother, he’s a lover and cuddler. He will be running by and stop to kiss or hug me. Or his daddy. Or anyone sitting still. A lover, indeed. I have my moments of nostalgia and sadness when I see my friends nursing their young ones, knowing that I’ll never experience that closeness with another baby. But mostly I’m just trying to keep up with two very quick, very busy, very energetic little boys who are constantly trying to out-do one another.

And that’s okay.

I had every intention to talk about weight loss today but I’m postponing that until next week. Why? Two reasons. 1) I think I’m about to finally break past this plateau of weight and 2) This is more important. What’s more important? Breastfeeding, Failure to Thrive, LittleBrother and some ranting, raving and a bit of tooting my own darn horn.

Remember my big rant about people referring to LittleBrother as tiny? Let me tell you, that was a good post. I got so many comments and e-mails and instant messages telling me that, no, LittleBrother is not tiny. But you know what? When someone plants a seed of doubt, man, that thing just takes hold and sprouts a huge tree with roots in places like your heart and mind and soul. And so. I broke down.

I stepped on the scale with LittleBrother. And my heart sank.

The scale, non-digital and not new, didn’t read any different than the doctor’s office scale for his four month appointment. And this was just days before he turned six months old. Panic set in. But I put it off for a day or two, asking some trusted nursing mothers their opinions on whether or not to trust my old scale. I did well ignoring my fears until our Wii Fit arrived. One day after I weighed myself, I picked him up and reweighed us together. After he finally stopped squirming around and the balance board stopped yelling at us to hold still, my fears were reaffirmed. No difference.

And so on the Saturday morning that he turned six months old, I took LittleBrother to the hospital for a weight check with the lactation consultant. I fed him all night the night before as he started his six month growth spurt. I put him on the scale. And it read exactly one pound higher than two months prior. From four to six months, babies should gain at least four ounces per week (two pounds per month). And LittleBrother only gained two ounces per week.

My mind started spinning as things like Failure to Thrive were mentioned and I was told to call my doctor on Tuesday morning to schedule an appointment. I started doubting everything I had done over the past two months. Wasn’t I eating enough fat in general? I mean, yes, I like salads, but I also like pizza. Should I be eating more fat? Would healthy fats help? Like avocado? And nuts? Should I add Fish Oil to my diet?

FireDad shrugged the whole Failure to Thrive off, reminding me that the kid had been rolling with consistency since he was two months old. He’s a mover and shaker. FireDad also mentioned his own metabolism. (In case you haven’t noticed, FireDad isn’t rotund.) But I was in panic mode. No amount of “he’s fine” was going to suffice.

As we had just started solids (more on that next week!), I mashed up some avocado and fed it to him. I ate a bunch of avocado. And some pizza rolls. (What? You don’t eat when you’re stressed?) And I nursed the heck out of the kid. And finally his appointment arrived. He weighed in three ounces heavier than he was five days earlier. I mentally knew this to be a good thing but I wanted the lactation consultant’s scale to be wrong. I wanted him to be two pounds heavier.

As I sat and waited our Pediatrician, Dr. S, to enter the room, I felt like I could vomit. I didn’t want to be told that something was wrong with my baby. I didn’t want to be told that I should supplement with formula. I wanted everything to be fine. I wanted to provide for my child. I wanted him to be healthy. And I wanted everyone to STOP CALLING HIM TINY.

Dr. S came in, asked a few questions, looked over LittleBrother and said, “He’s fine.” I breathed for the first time in five days. He gave us some possible reasoning. Perhaps he was moving and shaking it off. Perhaps he did have his Dad’s metabolism. Perhaps he was just a smaller (not tiny!) dude. And all of that was okay. No mention of formula. Instead, we were told to continue on as we had been doing and just add solids as we had been planning. No rush on food. No set schedule. Just go about our parenting business.

And while I’m relieved, I’m writing this to tell you: trust your gut. If you feel that your child is just fine, he probably is. If he’s hitting appropriate milestones and happy and doesn’t seem to be freaking-out-hungry after you finish a feeding, trust that your body is providing all the right stuff for your child. It’s so easy to freak out and feel like your body is “failing” your child, especially when someone mentions “Failure” to Thrive. But, chances are, you’re doing just fine. And your child is doing just fine. And everything will be just fine.

I mean, honestly, does this kid look like he’s failing to thrive?

I think not.