Our younger daughter nursed much longer than I expected, until she was nearly two. I loved the ease of it, giving to her. She’d cry, I’d offer her a boob. She’d settle in, and all was good again. When I stopped nursing, I was afraid all of a sudden. All at once, there was no clear, clean way to give to her, no certain way to ensure that she’d calm down. When she needed, wanted, suffered, I had only my best guess: words, hugs, begging, asking, holding. I only had the flawed and abstract way that humans love.
