As much as I don't utterly love breastfeeding, I'm also finding myself conflicted now that the end is in sight. How much of it is simple reluctance to step out of this physical stage of life, the pregnancy and the lactation stage, because, you know, mortality? How much of it is worry and guilt over how getting an out of the house job has made Bayboh's babyhood different from the others (although I definitely realize by now that every babyhood is different, no matter what)?
Things that can be measured are easy. If I can keep nursing him until he's a year old, I'll use that metric to tell myself I didn't shortchange him. But I'm getting pretty fed up with pumping and he's got four teeth plus a tendency to bite, which is definitely not a win for the nursing relationship. (I know there's things you can do. I've tried them. It's helped some, but I'm still always putting off feeding him until I know there's plenty of milk, because a quick letdown and enough to eat feels like the best defense. Unfortunately, it's also a good way to keep milk production on a downward trend.)
However it goes, though, he's still adorable and happy and when he falls asleep on you, it's the sweetest thing.