He wants to tell me so much but can only make out simple words: truck, clock, fish, dog. I want to understand so badly but can only guess what he is trying to say--gup means yes.
We've been two peas since I first felt him kick in my belly, inseparable since the moment he was born. I'll admit, he's a mama's boy and I'm his biggest fan. Until recently we shared a family bed because Dylan had to have one hand touching me to be able to sleep or else he would wake up every twenty minutes when he realized he was alone. With him in the bed with me I never slept soundly for fear of rolling over on him or a blanket covering his face. The two of us slept in each others' arms, both of us waking up all night long to make sure we were still together.
Now he is 18 months old and I find myself pushing him away. He sleeps in his own bed in his own room, he falls and scrapes his knees and I now bend down to calm his tears instead of scooping him up, he is not allowed to breastfeed.
I can see the changes in him in these last two weeks since I've forced him to stop nursing. We quit cold turkey because it was easier that way--like ripping off a Band-Aid--the physical pain my body went through was much more intense than the emotional strain weaning had on Dylan. By day three he had stopped asking to nurse and began talking more.
This bond we shared of being able to read each other so clearly has weakened, too. This new-found independence means less napping, more tantrums; a guessing game of whether he is hungry or tired or both. And he gets mad that I can't read him. Why should he have to verbally tell me what he is feeling when I've always known in the past? To say we are frustrated would be a generous understatement. Growing up is unfair to both of us.
But I keep telling myself that good parents hold their children close, great parents also teach them how to fly.
