Do I need to wait until my child is “ready” to wean?
A little over 5 years ago, I was exhausted from nursing my daughter to sleep every night. And then nursing her back to sleep every time she woke up through the night. Every. Single. Night.
So I decided it was time to “night wean” her.
This meant I would continue nursing her normally, but would no longer nurse her to sleep at night.
The first thing I did was go to the internet. I probably entered something like “gentle weaning” into the search bar. Although what I really meant was, “Somebody help! I really need to night wean, but I don’t want to crush my child’s soul.”
I found a plenty of articles full of information on the hows and whys of weaning. Some offered helpful scripts. Others gave specific schedules for when to nurse her for the last time before bed. They explained how naturally, children might wean on their own between the ages of 3 and 4 (I was not prepared to wait this long). They were also compassionate in making it clear that it was okay to wean earlier than this age.
However, these articles all seemed to be missing something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
And then, just as I was about to begin, I remembered the Hand in Hand Parenting tools (which I now teach in my course), and decided to see if they had written anything on weaning.
And this is where I found that "thing" that had been missing from the other "how to" articles.
Even though my head hadn’t had the words and information to describe what that missing piece had been–my heart immediately knew that I had found it.
You see, I was about to end a beautiful stage of my relationship with my child. We would be saying goodbye to a very intimate piece of our story together. A part of her life that she had relied on for physical and emotional safety all wrapped into one. And that she had never imagined having to go without.
The loss was going to hurt. And because of what I learned in that final article, my goal was not to make weaning an experience in which she would not have to feel this hurt.
Rather, my goal, was to love her through this loss. To acknowledge her right to grieve it well. And to be with her in her pain.
And grieve she did. With her mother's love holding her throughout.
Relying 5% on the tips and schedules from those other articles, and 95% on connection tools (especially Staylistening), I was able to support her through one of the most difficult experiences of her life at the time.
It hurt, and she healed.
THis was all pretty exhausting and brutal on my body. And her dad’s. The rocking, swaying, pacing and singing; when what we desperately wanted as the night hours progressed, was to be sleeping. The transition to lying together, with no rocking, swaying or walking. The gentle and spacious holding of her tears as she experienced every one of these changes.
I can say without a doubt that yy child was deeply loved and supported through this change.
And you know what? Back then, I didn’t have as much knowledge or “progress” in my own healing journey as I have now.
Nor did I need it in order to give her what she needed during those long nights.
In the end, much more than needing to be healed in order to wean her well; weaning her well resulted in a deeply healing and bonding experience for the two of us.
From the moment I read about how I could support her process of grief with my mere presence and love, to the moments of allowing her to grieve in my care and find other ways to fall asleep every night–I healed on so many levels.
When I think about her experience of this transition, there isn’t a thing I would change.
However, when I think about my experience, there is something I would definitely do differently.
If I could go back in time, I would explain to me, the mom, that I was also experiencing a loss. I would tell her, "It's okay to fall apart a little (or a lot) inside. I've got you."
What I know now because of healing–and that I didn’t know then–was that I needed just as much care as my daughter did.
Sure, I needed it in a different way than she did. And she was not supposed to be the one to give it to me. But nevertheless, I did need the help.
In those moments, alone in the bed, I wish I had known to say to myself, “It’s okay to have feelings about this. It’s a loss for you, too.”
Or that first morning, after yoga class, exhausted and tender from the night before. When I responded to my yoga teacher’s “how are you” with honesty, and with the tender hope that this older woman would be the loving maternal presence I so badly needed. Only to find that her response to my small-voiced, “I started weaning my daughter last night” would be, “Oh, your daughter is fine. You are the one who needs to move on.” In this moment, I wish someone was there to remind me that yes, my daughter would be fine. And also, this experience was hurting for her right now. And hurting for me, too. And that is always a good reason to receive some love.
I would find someone to tell me that I am doing an incredible job of lovingly leading my child through a painful transition. That it is good and brave to stay close by and witness her tears of pain. And to wait by her side, and allow her resilience to emerge in its own wise time.
Someone to hold and witness me in my grief, so that it wouldn’t stay all tangled up in there.
This story, and many others like it that I have listened to over the years, is why...
I don’t think parents require a certain level of consciousness or healing in order to implement good parenting tools well, and at the same time,
However, I know that all parents need a healing container for the emotional labor that we are continuously (and sometimes if feels like, relentlessly) called to do. For the grief that we need to process with each other. This is the truest labor of love that will sometimes touch on our oldest wounds, and other times, simply respond to the present realities of disappointment, loss and growth.
Parents, your healing isn't just for your child. And it isn't just for you, either, is it? Because, one thing only parents can fully understand, is that it's all wrapped up in the same beautiful, messy thing called relationship.