I’m not certain of the exact moment that it happened. It just did. But sometime in the past several weeks, Hugo took his last drink of milk. No ceremony. No closing ritual. Just like that, he weaned. 

It was not a conscious process. There was no dramatic lead up. There was no wringing of hands and worrying about how he’d cope. One day he was a nurseling, and then one day he was not.

I’m glad it happened that way. I don’t like drawn-out goodbyes. I have no taste for anxious preparation and nervous waits. I didn’t want a tiny, domestic melodrama, heavy with nostalgia, and worries that this, THIS, this might be my last time. He might be my last baby. This thing that I’ve loved so much, this might never happen again.

I’m glad about his growth, his hair that’s lightened, his smile that’s widened, his four teeth that have appeared. I’m thankful the the passage of time, and for each milestone. 

But boy, I miss that tiny baby, that little swaddled being, those sleep smiles, that afternoon calm, that dear sweet respite from the world outside with a cup of coffee and my Instagram feed. I miss that sleeping boy on my chest. Those days were so lovely.