She puts the WEEEE in weaning.

You know what is amazing?

The sensation of putting on a dress and walking out the door knowing that at no point during my time in that dress will I have to create access for anyone under the age of 37. That I could down a bottle of wine or tear through a combo #1 at Chick Fil A knowing that the only damage I'm inflicting is on myself.

We're on day 4 of Total Weaning 2008, and I have to say that having my body back to myself is pretty spectacular.

Early Saturday morning Caleb brought Harlow into our bed. After some confusion over whether or not I had already nursed her - apparently I had already done so in my dreams - I blearily accepted her warm little body and fell back asleep. It wasn't until later that afternoon when it dawned on me that our morning session had been the very last time. I knew that if I waited and made some big fuss about The Very Last Time I'd be a big ole sobby mess and she would be confused, and it just made sense for me that Saturday was the way it played out. A chapter in our story has finished, and I have a memory of warmth and closeness and family and sleep.

Harlow still on occasion pulls on my shirt but happily drinks down some crunchy munchy hemp milk with a smile. (That's right. My baby drinks hemp.)

I love that holding her is just me holding her. I get lots of hugs and snuggling and kisses where usually I was just smacked until I gave up the boob.

And then there was the magic that was yesterday. Harlow had her first ever sleepover at Nana and Papa's, and it couldn't have gone better. She barely batted one of those mile long eyelashes at me when I left, and she had a blast playing with her grandparents. She stirred just once, put herself back down and was up at 6:30 to start the day, a fact I was blissfully unaware of as I was busy sleeping off dinner, the Allison Krauss concert and a late movie. (Concerned that Nana might never ever offer to babysit again, we crammed as many activities into out night as Sweazily possible.

By the way, Allison Krauss? Goddess.

The assholes in Section B Row 34? It must have required serious dedication to your craft to become the biggest fuckwads on the planet. Did you get confused and think you were at a Zeppelin concert? Was it necessary to scream every 5 seconds through every song? Did you wake up this morning in a haze of corn dog and Bud breath with the slightest inkling that last night, during Killing the Blues, about 43 people hoped the song was referring to you?

Anyway.

So a question to those who have gone before me. In my worry over gently easing Harlow through this process, I didn't stop to think about what was going to be happening to me. I just figured there would be some lumps and some discomfort and the milk would go away. But then the sore throat started. And the exhaustion. And the achiness. Could it be the dreaded mastitis? I am sipping on some raw apple cider vinegar as I type this. Any other suggestions?