On June 7th, I nursed Olivia for the last time. The weaning process was slow for us, taking place over a couple of months. We gradually gave up all of her daytime feeds. Before long, we nursed only at bedtime, the two of us cuddled up in a rocking chair, watching the walls of her room darken and disappear as the evening light faded. It was my favorite time of the day, and I looked forward to it. No matter how hectic or crazed I felt as I carried her up the stairs, as soon as we settled into our seat, all the stress just fell away. While Olivia nursed, I'd close my eyes and tell her a story about our day. When she was a newborn, the stories were mostly about how much we loved her, and how many mommy mistakes I'd made that day. As she grew, the stories became about her sitting, crawling, and eventually, walking. Lately, our stories have been about her sandbox and wading pool, or her amazing prowess on the stairs. On June 7th, I pulled her close to tell her a different kind of story, one about a little girl who was growing up so fast, and her mommy who hated to let her go.

I'm one of those busy, fidgety people who can't sit still. I'm always doing three things at once, whether it's paying bills while I cook dinner, or flipping through catalogs while I talk on the phone. I putter. Maybe it's a nervous habit, but I've never been able to break it. Until Olivia came along, I don't think I'd ever actually sat still and looked out the window for more than a minute. But when you're nursing a newborn, your puttering options are limited. When she needed to be fed, I had to stop everything I was doing, take her in my arms, settle down, and feed her. Just that. We'd stare into one another's eyes while she nursed, and more often than not, we'd both have a little nap. Nursing became my down time, and our special quiet time together. I loved it as much as she did.

The experience of nursing changed as she grew. The frequent feedings she required as a newborn gave way to a more reasonable, predictable routine. We'd have an early morning nurse at about 3:45 a.m., just before I got up to go to work. Then I'd come home in time to provide a late lunch nurse. She'd nurse again in the late afternoon, at dinnertime, then again at bedtime. She was a reliable as a little clock. Soon, her first teeth came in. I braced myself, having heard horror stories about biting. She chomped me a couple of times, then learned that I wasn't a teething toy. Months went by as we marked the important baby milestones: crawling, standing, first steps, first word, first real grown-up food. Throughout it all, we nursed. I never worried about nutrition, because I knew she was getting everything she needed. I never worried about ear infections, because she never had one. Nursing made me cheerfully complacent. It was the all-purpose, perfect answer to every problem. Air travel bothering her ears? Time to nurse. Awake in the middle of the night? Time to nurse. Teething pain? Nothing a little nursing can't cure. For thirteen months I walked around feeling like I had a bra full of miracles.

Some people are naturally gifted in one area or another. Things come easily, effortlessly to those lucky souls. I'm not one of them. I'm a grind, a worker bee, the person for whom the concept of persistence was invented. I've never mastered anything without enormous amounts of sweat and labor. Until I tried to nurse. When it came to breastfeeding, I was a born natural, an Olympian - the Tiger Woods of lactation. And it made me happy. Nursing Olivia brought me a kind of joy and fulfillment that I'd never known. But watching her grow and explore, I knew that she was eager to be a big girl. Walking, eating real foods, drinking from a cup and starting to talk, Olivia's interest in nursing was winding to a close. I set June 7th as our end date, then watched the calendar with a heavy heart.

The night arrived. We settled into our chair. I reminded her that it was our last nurse, that she was my big girl now, and that even though I would gladly nurse her forever, it was a mommy's hard job to know when it was time for little girls to grow up. We rocked and rocked, and I willed myself to remember the moment always. Then I had a good cry, my tears splashing onto her flushed and drowsy cheeks. She slipped into sleep at my breast, though I tried to keep her awake. We were done. I tucked her into her crib and watched the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Standing beside her, I thought of the angels, and wondered if it's true that they ask, as they escort us to heaven, what our favorite thing on earth was. I'm lucky now to have my answer.