Hiroko Nishimura

Some day in the spring, my second baby stopped breastfeeding. One day, he said, “Nah, I’m good, ma,” and that was that.

I had expected it to be a battle like many of my friends had described, where it was the battle of wills, buckets of tears, and potentially few choice graffitis on choice body parts.

But no. He suckled for a few seconds, shrugged, and that was that. He stopped, and never asked for