The break up.

For the past 13 months, Julian has called all the shots with regards to breastfeeding (and let's face it, lots of other things, too). He never took a bottle, so it was just he and I. He and I.

He and I.

It shouldn't surprise me that he also decided that he was done nursing all on his own. No warning, just a "too busy to be bothered with this thing you're peddling" attitude. No thank you, Ma'am...we're all done here.

Who does he think he is?

I feel sad.

And a little offended. What do you mean, you're done? Don't you realize that you're the last baby I'll ever nurse? That there is usually slow weaning process that helps both you and I? Clearly, he missed this important memo.

But mostly, just sad. The kind of sad that makes you lose it and have the ugly cry.

Onward and upward, they say. Heave Ho. Carry on.

To my boobs:

Thank you (again!) for a job well done. You are small, but very mighty. This time around there was nary a clogged duct, for which I am grateful. You will be rewarded in due time with new bras (under wire, even!) that will give others the illusion of what you once were. Perky.