I’ve surprised myself, I have proven that I change over age and experience can alter opinion.
I used to think breastfeeding a toddler was inherently wrong.
Seven years ago when sitting by a pool on a sunny Spanish resort I watched with mouth agape when a woman not much older than I lifted her nine month daughter out of her high chair and attached her to her breast.
“She’s a bit old for that.” I mumbled to my other half who was rocking a buggy that held our four-month old babies inside. “I couldn’t imagine feeding anything with teeth.”
Truth be told at that point I hadn’t really fed anything with gums; my attempts to breastfeed the twins were thwarted by poor advice and a lack of stamina.
But then came the third.
The child I was determined to birth naturally (she was a sunroof child) and the baby I longed to hold to my breast.
She is still here, as I type her eyes are closed as she drifts towards sleep, her pinky finger intertwines with mine and a smile of satisfaction sits on her lips.
She is five months off being three and she has a full set of teeth.
We have fed a little longer than intended.
Yet the contentment that eases through us last thing at night as we unwind in a chair is something I cherish and am reluctant to let slip away. It is a closeness that I find tricky to describe but one born from purity.
Morning starts with a cry for mummy and she melts into my arms as I cradle her in bed and she gently latches on.
She doesn’t bite, she knows I am not an apple.
I see myself seven years ago staring in astonishment, I imagine my reaction to myself right now.
I feel I have come a long way.