This weekend I stopped nursing Abe. He's a very verbal 16-month-old, but somehow he hadn't yet thought to shake his head at a boob pointed at him (only at bedtimes and wakings, at this point), so this weekend I just kind of stopped offering. He could not have cared less. I should feel grateful for this - I'm sure I actually am grateful, that this won't be some long, protracted goodbye that will make us both crazy. Instead I am wistful at the end of the useful life of my breasts, which were never much before I had kids, and as such kind of liked the limelight that nursing afforded.
But what I'm not-liking even more than the end of nursing is the fact that all vestiges of an excuse for eating poorly are now out the window. I stopped dieting last November, ten pounds short of my goal, and managed to maintain that loss... until now.
It's summer - what the hell am I doing eating this much?!
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