It surprised me our pediatrician did not tell us to schedule a first dental checkup, but when a friend mentioned it should happen around eighteen months, I realized no one had ever looked in G’s mouth except us. With only one pediatric dentist in our community, there was no choice of practitioner. We took her in, assuming it would be a routine look at baby teeth.

Coming over to G, the dentist introduced himself strongly to her dad, offered a limp handshake to me, and ignored the patient who sensed the awkwardness, snuggled in toward me, and asked to nurse. I made her as comfortable as possible on my lap and discretely assented.

The doctor looked at us, asked if we co-slept, and without looking at G’s teeth said “We’ll probably find a cavity there. You need to change your routine. Stop nursing at night. That’s when tooth decay normally happens.”

Inspecting G’s mouth, he found what he was looking for: a cavity in her front lateral incisor. He recommended surgery to fix it. We walked out in shock. Surgery? In the reception area I saw a framed article in which he avowed, early childhood caries happen most frequently in those children who “sleep with their mothers.” Period. Not “sleep and nurse” or “nurse through the night.” No mention of the other culprits I later researched: lack of dental hygiene, going to sleep with a bottle, eating dried fruit. It would take us four dentists and over six months before we had any clarity on his assertion. But we were not going to put G in surgery without it being absolutely necessary.

Our second opinion came from another pediatric dentist who agreed there was a cavity and gave us some fluoride paste to apply topically for six months. She said delaying surgery for that long was not a problem. As a lark, I scheduled a third opinion with a recommended local general dentist who took one look and said it was not a cavity at all but a broken tooth. I didn’t believe him! We sought a final opinion from my dentist whose practice started with kids at age three. After a quick look he seconded the broken tooth diagnosis. G probably hit her tooth a while ago, he said, part of the tooth chipped off, and the root died.

Day one of this adventure served as a wake-up call for brushing and flossing, not to mention advocating for our child. But my ride to such enlightenment was not smooth. First I really believed the dentist’s assertion that we needed to wean. He harmonized with a chorus of skeptical family and friends.

I felt deeply alone as I wrote out our many steps and missteps. After all of my doubts were released, my pen took me through a battery of questions. Was G all right? Were our decisions working for our family? Could I truly imagine parenting her in any other way at this time? Was I following what seemed best for her whole self? How significant was one tooth (that did not hurt her) in all of this? Was I going to let a dentist trump my instincts and her fundamental needs?

Besieged by such a strong anti-breastfeeding message made me reflect on what I was doing and why. Until this point, I was trending increasingly toward natural weaning. G was not yet two years old, still within the World Health Organization’s recommended window for nursing; we remained on a fairly conventional path from an international perspective, if not a domestic one.

In the late 1960s, my mother fought social norms to breastfeed at all. She got me to the point where I could use a cup, around nine months. Similarly, my mother-in-law nursed G’s dad as a baby. But our extended family included no proponents of extended nursing. Early in Gigi’s first year they asked when I would stop. When I would stop. Implying that it couldn’t be a child’s choice.

Up to this point, my husband indulged my belief that there should be a natural, evolutionary end to a nursing relationship, but he expressed his doubts after visiting the first dentist.

I culled research from all corners of the country: La Leche League, my former lactation consultant in Santa Monica at Pump Station, Mothering Magazine, the American Academy of Breastfeeding Medicine, and multiple pediatricians all over the US. Overwhelmingly, no source revealed a causal relationship between breastfeeding, cosleeping, and caries. The evidence was not there.

All I learned about nutrition, parenting, sleep, trust, child development, education and brain growth reaffirmed my principle belief: every woman has the right to choose how she parents her children. As long as there is safety and love, there is no one true path. But for the record: nursing during the day or night does not give a kid cavities. The worst offenders are dried fruit, fruit juice, and even some formulas that contain sugars.

For G, I believed in the power of our nursing relationship to meet her needs. Children grow up, regardless of parenting choices. Neuro-normally, they are not stuck permanently in any stage. They crawl, grow teeth, walk, talk, and (most of the time are allowed to) potty train at their own speed; why shouldn’t such a critical connection as nursing be allowed its natural passage, assuming there are no other mitigating circumstances on the part of parent or child?

Faced with these questions, I heard my own clear answers. I saw us being guided toward our own north star, and while I could not be certain what I would find when we arrived, I trusted the way would reveal itself by marrying our instincts, hearts, and minds. As it had thus far.