I started visualizing G’s emotional releases like pulling weeds. Carefully taking hold of her focus, trying to find the stem cause, and then teasing it out to see if we could get access to the deepest roots. Not only were we working on the issue at hand, we were also making space for sunlight to hit the plants we wanted to grow.

Before driving to school, G found her old car seat in the garage and asked to ride in it. We had struggled over the same issue the day before, and I got angry. This time I did the weed-work, yielding a conversation all the way to school, the crux of which was summed up in one sentence: “I miss my baby life.”

In retrospect, it seemed easy to put the old car seat in the car and observe the results. G quickly found out it was not as comfortable as she expected. When I started asking gentle questions about what the car seat meant to her, she burst out, “I wan to stop having seems [nursing], but I feel like I can’t! I would weally miss my ni-time ones.” We talked about her sadness. “I weally loved my baby life, but I’m finking dat gwowing up might be weally good, too.” Growing up might be really good too. The mix of promise and fear; I knew it well.

We discussed strategies for the morning, thereby getting down to just one nursing per day. Maybe craft supplies? “Maybe if you get pompoms, popsicwle sticks, gwitter gwue, an’ stickows, I’ll do a project forst ting in da moanin’. Dat might woak.” Glitter glue and stickers… that might work.

While G was in class, I drove around town running errands and selecting some craft materials. I purchased a large white tray and an assortment of supplies, deciding to present a general idea for G to find downstairs when she woke up the next morning. The first day, she jumped out of bed with enthusiasm. “Hey! Look, Papa! Dis is my magic pwoject and dis is my magic tway!”

We went three nights without nursing, and the Magic Tray was such a success that G wanted to get up earlier and earlier for it. One morning she got up to go to the bathroom at 4:30AM, and rather than turning back to bed, trotted down the dark stairs, braver than ever. I heard her talking to herself: “Is da magic tway out yet?”

Soon I discovered that she wanted this craft time to be for both of us, as the mimmis were. I loved that we might have found a tender way to cross this bridge. Adjusting my nighttime routine, I set up the Magic Tray, emptied the dishwasher, and prepared the kettle with a tea bag in my mug so I could sit down on one of her mini chairs and create, too.

Just in time for a setback. Cough. Cold. Fever. No school. I abandoned weaning efforts. A week later we were back on track, but bedtime remained a challenge. “Mama, I’m gonna be filled wif sad-mess to say goodbye to da mimmis.”