“Mirabel [the dolly] is afwaid to ride hea bike.”

“What do you say to her?”

“O. Ver. Come. Yoa. Fea.” Overcome your fear.

One Sunday night in May, G and I read stories as usual, but when she started to nurse, it felt painful to me. I was gritting my teeth. Unpremeditated words tumbled out of my mouth, “Mama’s body is finished with meems. It’s been holding on for a long time, waiting for you to be ready. But I guess the angels are sending us another message because now it hurts. It’s not your fault at all. It’s just the end of four and a half years of meems. So what if… what if we worked together… and if you can go a week without meems, I’ll get you Heely’s?” The number one item on her wish list was a pair of tennis shoes with hidden wheels.

Immediately she removed her mouth from my body, whimpered a bit, flipped her body the opposite way in the bed, asked for me to rub her feet, and went to sleep.

In the morning, I snuck out of bed early and went to my closet where I found a bag containing someone who was waiting since Thanksgiving when I last considered weaning: Snuggle-Puppy, a big, super-soft doggy who was fluffy and huggable. I hoped it would help G the way stuffed animals still sometimes helped me, to have someone to hold.

G awoke, found this bag at the foot of her bed, and all focus was outward. Almost instantaneously, she was downstairs doing her Magic Tray activity, finished eating breakfast, and buckled up in the car with a new cubby-baby for school. We forged forth into the day without a backward glance, sans nursing.

After bath and story time, G took the Heely grid I hastily made that morning, and she marked a wheel design in each box for two successful days. “Look, Mom! I did my own wheel because I jus’ KNOW I’m gonna do it!”

She got in bed. “I want meems.”

“Honey, we can’t. My body stopped working. I’m sorry. But you can do it. I still love you! You’re gonna be okay.”

“I don’ know how! I need something to suck on.”

“It’s alright. You can suck on a pacifier or your finger if you want.”

“NO! Dey don’ have milk!”

“Neither do the meems anymore, you know.”

“Yeah. But dey DID! I don’ wan to sleep here.” She got out of bed, left her room, and went downstairs. I waited. Nothing happened.

Going downstairs, I heard G cackling in a faux laugh, mimicking one of her friends. She sprinkled her behavior with potty talk. It was getting late; I tried to keep my cool. “G, it’s time for bed. Let’s go upstairs.” She began to kick and punch me.

“You’ve reached your limit!” I raised my voice. I hated the feeling of anger poisoning me; I wanted to get out of my body. Taking G upstairs in my arms, I put her in her bedroom and said, “This is your bedroom. This is where you sleep. On the bottom bed, on the top bed, or on the floor. With or without me. It’s up to you.”

I turned around and left. How could this hurt so much? I thought the weaning process was supposed to be painless when delayed. I could see G was ready. She wanted the freedom that included sleepovers and time with friends. My body was sending me a clear message that there was no more milk.

G came out of her room. “Mommy? I need you.”

“I’m here.” She crawled into my arms, crying hard, but she calmed quickly. I talked again about what this meant and what we were doing. “I believe in you,” I said. “I know you can do it.”

I started to see that beyond the false bravado, the anger, and the impersonation of tougher kids, she was just sad. Tears came to my eyes. “Mama, I see teaws in youa eyes.”

“Yes. I’m sad, too, sweetie. We’ve had something special for a long time. Now we get to find something new. A new dance. We were lucky to have the meems dance for so long… Now, it’s time for bed.”

“Yeah, I know.” We snuggled, I rubbed her feet, and sleep came. As always, we conflicted and resolved. It amazed me.

Soon enough, morning came. I went into my room and pulled out a little something: a light saber for a very brave girl. Now she had extra strength. She affirmed, “I KNEW I could do it!”

I was not surprised that she had to witness, honor, grieve, and even challenge this next step in her life. The next night she asked “just an alphabet?” (a nursing length, counting from a-z.) “No,” I replied. “We’re moving forward. If some part of your body were to hurt, we would listen to that. My body is telling us that we have to change, and we must listen to it.” At the same time, she seemed proud, excited, and ready for a bit more autonomy. She asked for “a private bath” to play according to her own rules; I sat on the other side of the wall, read my book, and listened to her chatter and splash.

The next time she tried to conjure up tears, but they would not come. “Each day gets easier,” I told her, and indeed it did. She struggled sometimes with the “I can’ts” just before sleep, but I kept saying, “I believe in you.” Other things that worked for soothing were: rubbing her feet or her back, snuggling with Snuggle Pup, flipping to the other side of the bed, putting her feet on my belly, or telling a story. It was a fait accompli, with regrets.

“Dat worked, Mama! You put me to sleep an’ den I’m ok during da night.”

In the morning I had a series of small surprises to keep her energy refocused. (She never did get the Heelys because a teenaged boy who we trusted said they were really unsafe. I loved that he cared enough to advise us against getting them and that G honored his opinion.)

“Magic was for when I started not to have meems so I’d have someping in da morning, but now I have a present AND magic!”

“You’re right. Shall we get rid of magic?”

“NO!!!” Magic table activities graduated beyond their original intent into a staple of our morning routine. Increasingly it was a rough concept—a few materials and tools—for G to riff and let her art-heart fly. It gave her a chance to wake up slowly, doing what she loved, and it offered me a moment to get tea brewing and toast in the oven.

Advancements seemed to be happening all the time. Gigi transitioned from training wheels on her bike to two-wheeling, faced graduation from nature nursery school, and prepared for another fun summer. On Memorial Day weekend, we had friends to visit that meant a long joyous play date for G.

She did not need me all weekend. No helping with shoes, clothes, or potty stops. I was given a break and experienced a silly kind of uselessness. A hoop in the future I did not want to jump through yet.

In trying to give G oneness, she returned it to me. I would continue to give to her forever, but I had to accept that her bounty for me could go at any time. If I did my job well, she would feel free. The great paradox of parenthood.

Holding onto this maternal handful of sand, I could not keep my grip all of the time. It was slipping. These pages did not capture it. Nothing could. I saw the evanescence of our moments in the eyes of elders as they looked wistfully in our direction. Some grains would never leave, lodged in my pockets, my shoes, and in-between my fingers and toes. But that big handful? It was slippin’.

I hoped. I hoped. I hoped she would be okay on this journey toward separateness and self actualization. I hoped I would be, too.