I Think I Was Weaned Too Early
Before you ask: I was breastfed for a normal amount of time. I also want to be clear that nothing tragic happened to me, because people get very nervous when you say things like this. I was fed. I grew. I thrived in all the expected ways. Everything was kosher. Textbook, even. But that’s what makes it all the more disturbing to me.
One day, I unlatched from Mother’s nipple for good. There was no ribbon-cutting, no closing ceremony. No one even told me it was the last time, which is interesting.
I know what you’re thinking: What about formula, pacifiers, thumb sucking, and mashed peas? You learned to crawl, didn’t you, bitch? And I would reassure you that those are all perfectly fine things. But they do NOT do the same job. They do NOT feel the SAME in the BODY. `
The point is, breastfeeding works. And we don’t have a lot of things like that left. Whenever I find out that someone had access to tetas con leche for longer than I did, I take note. I get jealous. Because if you’re 26, still on Mother’s health insurance, and nursing regularly, congratulations you lucky sonofabitch — you’ve got yourself a closed-loop biodefense system! I’ve been spanked for saying this, but remote work is just a scheme designed to separate the American worker from the American boob.
Ohhhhh so babies don’t remember being breastfed? First of all, prove it! Second of all, waah. My bones know. People looooove saying the body remembers until it remembers something inconvenient. And for the record, there are plenty of things I don’t remember that still shaped me (weather, accents, teen-aged mold in my 32oz Owala FreeSip) and things I do remember that didn’t do squat for me!! (like memorizing 32 digits of Pi or supposedly shitting on a bus and spilling diet coke on it to cover the stain??)
Before we get too carried away, please know that I am not saying breastfeeding should go on indefinitely. I’m just saying that it should go on longer than we think. What if an extra year of titty milk would have blessed me with a fatter ass? Made me less of a crybaby? Or helped me become simply unstoppable?? Maybe you’d be looking at the next Jane Goodall or Whoopi (Goldberg). We’ll never know!
And I don’t walk around thinking about this every day. I have a job. I pay rent. I drink oat milk like everyone else. But sometimes, without warning, the thought seeps in anyway, the way krill is filtered into a humpback whale’s mouth without discretion. It keeps me up at night. Cleavage enters my peripheral vision and I ask myself: Who taught me this? Capitalism? My mother? PBS? I feel like a caveman.
But in those moments, I can’t help wondering: would one last suckle make it all alright? Because doing it myself every night certainly isn’t cutting it.