Weaning. Or not.

Let me quote myself, a couple of months ago: "[...]gradually one can cut down on the nursing, start saying no when a mealtime is coming up, make sure they're reasonably hungry for lunch and dinner, nurse afterwards, whatever." What a pile of shite. Codswallop. Baloney. This does not work. Maybe it does for you, but not for me.

What happens is this: Mabel comes home from an outing with her father. She runs in the door, delighted to see me. I pick her up. She takes my face in both hands, orientates my eyes to hers, and whispers in the most incredibly cute manner: "I need mumeet."

"Do you?" I say, simultaneously exasperated and delighted.
"Yes. Do you," she agrees.
"How about some food?" I ask.
"No. No food. Mumeet."
"Applesauce? A delicious yogurt? Some nice cold milk from the fridge? Dinner?" I hazard.
"No dinner. I need mumeet."

And that's that. I know that if I take her into the kitchen her feet will evade the pinion of the high chair; if I attempt to put her down and open the fridge, she'll cling and wail piteously; if I am so bold as to try to put some food in front of her it will be batted away by an increasingly intolerant hand. I have made my point, woman. You know my demands, and they will be met.

And they will, because I'm a pushover. Later, she might have some food. She might even eat broccoli and sausages, or roast chicken, or a scrambled egg and baked beans, warming the cockles of her mother's heart; or she might go to bed having had nothing solid all day but half a frozen waffle and too many raisins. I'm constantly making excuses - she has a cold, that last canine is still coming through, it's hot - and I'm happy that I can nourish her so well.

But heck. In much the same way as my blood is delicious to mosquitoes, my breastmilk must be pure ambrosia, nectar of the gods, more scrummy than any food known to man or (more pertinently) baby. I really wanted to just gradually tail off with the nursing (both times), but it always seems to go the other way around, as they gradually pare down their accepted foods and come to pester me for the good stuff ever more often. My plan (hah. plan.) now is to wait till September when things are more orderly, schedule us heavily with classes and Things to Do and whatnot, have proper meals at proper hours all in place, and then just keep whizzing her about all day so she doesn't have time to stop and ask for mumeet.

This sort of worked before, with Monkey, and there were only about two weeks of my having to deny, deny, deny, and distract, and ignore the wailing and rending of garments, before he got used to only getting side three times a day. (Which is still almost a full complement, I'll have you know. A baby only needs four sessions a day to be considered fully fed.) Since Mabel doesn't nurse to sleep at naptime, usually, we might even cut down to twice a day quite quickly. But oh boy will she be attached to those two times, and look to them as a lifeline and her birthright and her God-given due. (Or maybe I'm projecting.) The weaning technique of "never offer, never refuse" just isn't something that works in this house. I hardly ever do offer, but I have to be more proactive in the refusal department, and that's what gets me every time.