Bittersweet

I'm in the process of weaning #3.  We're down to two feedings per day. 

Part of me is ready to move on - to have my body back, to shop for new clothes, jeans, shirts, bras, to not have to worry about leaking, to have a glass of wine whenever I feel like it, to not worry about everything that passes my lips lest it be harmful to a one-year-old.

Part of me is sad about this phase ending.  I love the physical closeness when I breastfeed.  I love that there is something that is given to my son that nobody but I can provide.  I love the knowledge that my body has the power to sustain another.

In all likelihood, this is the real end of the pregnancy/breastfeeding stage for me.  Although Hubster wants a daughter, I don't know if I want to go through another pregnancy, the all-hours-of-the-night feedings, the constant fatigue, that insanely tumultuous first year, the strain on the marriage, the recalibration of the family unit, the how-many-more-years-until-I-can-get-a-break? phase.  I worry how my emotional stability, our marriage, would weather this cycle again.

The only firm decision I've made is that I don't want to plan to have any more children.  However, if I do get pregnant again, I won't be upset; I'll know that it was meant to be.