I’m happy to up my street cred today with a guest post from the lovely and talented Azúcar, of The Jet Set. Thank you Azúcar.

Nursing toddlers is the new black

Now that Gwen Stefani is still nursing her toddler, I wonder if extended nursing will be the newest, coolest thing. I want it on record: I did it before Gwen made it cool. I nursed my first baby until he was 2.5 year old. I intend on nursing all my babies that long. I’m not about to write a long treatise on how nursing into childhood is or isn’t for everyone, but it was for us.

I bet some of you are curious how it all worked, so I’m spilling the beans, pull up a bowl.

When I was pregnant with El Guille, I had a conversation with my mom and baby sister. Baby sister and I both voiced our opinions that when a baby can walk and talk, they can be done with nursing. These opinions were based on…who knows what they were based on?! We were just parroting what we’d heard here and there. My mom looked a little funny. “Well,” she said, “I nursed each of you past a year. And you, baby sister, the longest of all. You were three.” That planted a seed. If I’d weaned El Guille when he could walk, he would have been 9 months.

We had a hard time nursing at first. I got some poor medical advice that cut my supply and it was a devil of a time trying to bring it back. We had a nursing strike at 7 months that was so emotional. That’s why when I got to 12 months I took a look around; El Guille didn’t want to stop, and neither did I.

What were our options? I’m a big one for researching my decisions and not taking anything at face value. I thought about nursing logically: how was it that breast milk is the most perfect food for the first 365 days of your baby’s life and then on day 366, it goes rotten and sour? Call me out, but I couldn’t think of a single other bodily function or procedure that was so tied to the Gregorian calendar. You can read about the benefits here if you desire the details.

If you know me, you’d probably guess that when we decided to nurse past a year, it was worthy of an announcement. You’re lucky you didn’t see an ad in the paper. “Azucar and her family would like the pleasure of informing you that they do the unthinkable in our America: they plan on nursing until their babies are at least two years old. In lieu of gifts, please buy a Boppy and burn a bra.”

When I told my mom and dad that I was planning on going until El Guille was at least two they were pleased. I kind of joked with my dad that at least Guille would stop by the time he went to school. “Why? The longer, the better.” said my dad, quite seriously. School age is a little over the line, for me anyway. My in-laws weren’t as openly supportive. My mother-in-law thought it was a little strange, but she’s a really good person who believes that I’m the mother and I make the best decisions for my babies. I love her for that.

Some people think that when you’re nursing a toddler it’s like nursing a newborn: every two hours and time intensive. It’s not at all. For us, we nursed twice a day, occasionally three times, from age 16 months to 22 months. At 22 months, he refused to sit still and wanted to play first thing, not nurse. Hey! Fine by me! We kept our bedtime nursing for the next seven months. He gradually slowed down, dropping a session here and there: he went to every other day, to twice a week, then once, and then it was over. El Guille weaned himself: no tears, no drama, and no big deal. So much for the “If you don’t wean before a year they’ll NEVER stop” crowd. He stopped when he was ready, and that’s what I wanted for him.

I loved nursing a toddler because they will actually slow down and enjoy snuggle time with you. It was great to know that I didn’t have to worry about his nutrition gap, no ensure or toddler formula. I didn’t have to stress that he didn’t like cow milk. When El Guille was 16 months and got sick from a plane ride we took, the only thing he would keep down was my milk. My pediatrician told me that he was such a severe case that had I not been nursing him, he probably would have been hospitalized for dehydration. It was a great way to sooth bumps and bruises, to stop a tantrum in its tracks. El Guille had manners. He didn’t pull on my shirt and demand to nurse in public. He didn’t run in and out of the room nursing for two seconds, or try to nurse in some gymnastics position. He understood, because I taught him, that we only nursed at home. But that got me thinking…

Women who nurse their babies into toddler or childhood have been in a back bedroom for too long. More women than you know nurse past a year. I found out that two of my downstairs neighbors had each nursed their babies for over two years. Another neighbor came for a visit and mentioned something about her one year old nursing. I asked how long she usually nursed. She got embarrassed and said, “Well…uhm…a long time.” “Me too!” I squealed, “How long is a long time?” She said that her first was 2 years and her second, 3. I was at church on Sunday and went into the women’s lounge to nurse Proximo. I found a mom there with her 2 year old. The mom was a little nervous. I told her how awesome it was that she was still nursing, and she relaxed.

Why is this not even an issue in the rest of the world? Why is it ok to feed your human child milk from a cow, but not human milk from their own mother? That reasoning doesn’t pass muster with me.

Here’s the deal: until moms start coming out of that back bedroom and telling other people, extended nursing is going to seem strange. There’s nothing wrong with nursing into childhood, it’s how humans were biologically designed. I know it’s not for everyone, but it is natural. I want other women to understand that it’s ok to listen to your heart and make decisions that might seem unusual to other Americans. Most of all, there’s nothing like nursing a little child. They are so grateful, so happy to be there. They want to spend that close time with you, gazing into your eyes, playing little finger games, just being near you.

I wonder if El Guille remembers nursing. It’s been one year and four months since we stopped, written in my heart like all mother’s milestones. Just last week, he called me into his room. He asked if we could sit in the rocking chair together. That rocking chair is where we used to nurse near the end. He crawled up onto my lap, folding up his arms and legs—limbs that are now elongating and becoming thinner, like a real boy. He placed his head on that space under my neck. “Can I have some milk from here?” He patted my chest. “No,” I said, “You’re a big boy now.”

(If you’re looking for me, I am jumping into the fray over at Mormon Mommy Wars today, where I play Sir Links-a-lot and attempt to debunk a myth that women of a certain age don’t blog.)