wherein the subject of breasts is visited

baby x is now nearly 10 months old (!), a fact for which the baron and the husband are grateful.  he's healthy and happy and wanting to explore more and more of the world.  he's now eating solid food, real solid food, the kind of food that makes the husband occasionally say, as he looks longingly into baby x's food bowl, 'that looks good.  if he doesn't finish it, i will.' 

the baron spends at least two days a week planning and cooking and freezing meals for baby x, and he's now into adventurous fare like broccoli, rice and cheese casseroles and indian spiced lentil stew.  it's an exciting time for the baron and the husband, watching baby x taste new things FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME, and for baby x, for whom everything is exciting and potentially the best thing he ever ate.  he mostly likes everything, even (or especially) the addition of herbs and spices to his meals. 

however.  all this excitement comes with a seemingly insignificant side effect, seemingly insignificant if you are anyone but the baron.

because baby x is now eating three meals a day plus snacks, the baron doesn't nurse him very often anymore.  she went, in rather short order, from nursing him 10-12 times per day to their current schedule of no more than 4-5 nursing sessions per day.  nine months ago, when her breasts weren't in great shape (you know, reader: tearing, bleeding and other kinds of baby-induced traumas), she would have given anything for the nursing experience to be over.  she often thought, in those early days, that breastfeeding for an entire year (as is recommended by the american academy of pediatrics and also EVERYONE ELSE THE BARON ASKED ABOUT IT) seemed like a ridiculous goal, one that she was certain to fall short of.

but.

now nine months on, she's quite good at nursing; it's become second nature for her, and for baby x.  now, breasts healed and anxiety about 'is baby x eating enough?  AM I STARVING HIM?' mostly abated, she's a bit sad about their diminished bonding time.  it's normal, she knows: as he eats more solid food, he drinks less breast milk. 

she says to friends that she's looking forward to baby x's first birthday, the one year mark, the day she can start him on dairy milk.  this is partly true: it will certainly be easier to provide dairy milk to him on a long trip - or even a short one - than to breast feed him.  except that there's a part of her, a not-very-small-part of her, that's looking forward with sadness, waiting to mourn the end of this special time.  crazy, eh?