My baby turns nine tomorrow. She's like the stump of a tree with huge green shoots sticking out of the top of it – short and blunt but full of big thoughts.
She's fiercely independent, of course, like most girls, constantly demanding to be let do things by herself.
But she always asks me to get into bed with her for a chat at night. I always tell her she's the best little girl in Ireland and she always tells me I'm the best little Mammy in Ireland – though to tell the truth I am neither little nor particularly good.
But I did breastfeed her until she was four. I had four kids under three and a half. After the first difficult period when I used to feed her on the dining-room table to be out of reach of my two toddlers, the feeding was just so easy.
I never really thought about it. She could always be comforted. She could always be shushed. She didn't know what a doctor was and still doesn't.
She didn't get much attention but she did get the feeding. We had our little conspiracy.
I was told that, left to themselves, kids will wean at about four years and one month. That's when chimp Mammies calls it quits too, and firmly but gently end the feeding. Anyway, it was just exactly the right time for us to wean.
She remembers it all clearly. It's a furry little memory she strokes every now and then, and we have a conspiratorial giggle.
I think my three boys who got less feeding were pissed off, mind. I wouldn't like anyone to think it's all rosy in our garden. But now, as my baby's childhood streaks past and motherhood becomes a memory, I can only say thank you for the days.
by Victoria White.
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