Two days later, Mommy walked into the room where our newborn and Daddy were playing. More noticeable than the shock on Mommy's face were the watermelon size protrusions shooting from Mommy's shoulders. This was one of those enviable mothers with an oversupply problem, just give a yell to Bessie. Six months after sleeping on rubber sheets and stuffing socks into Mommy's bra, Mommy's angel could still watch two showerheads on Mommy's chest spray milk, because her baby had just smiled. 

On the motherhood map Mommy's intellect devised, the little angel would neatly enter daycare at six weeks and efficiently be weaned at ten months. No nonsense. My daughter approached this map with the same flexibility she had decided upon the timing of her arrival in this world. 

At thirteen months, she was introduced to the loving arms of her daycare provider, "Bo." She played in those arms while Mommy's were nearby - but gradually moving away. On the big day, she jumped into her "Bo's" arms, waved goodbye, then looked towards the "big girls" of twenty and thirty months playing on the floor with a ball and puzzle. She wanted to play those games too. Arriving three hours early to pick her up, Mommy found her safe, there, unscarred and smiling. Mommy cried. 

We weaned forever last night. At nineteen months, she went to sleep without her "Boob." She never did develop a more polite term for nursing. This child was verbal at ten months and issued requests with a take-no-prisoners delivery. There was no such request last night. She didn't need the tangible warmth of Mommy's nurturing last night. Mommy's milk had been there when needed, and if needed Mommy's arms would be there when she awoke. 

This morning she was eager to show the wonders of the yard beyond her "Bo's" home to a twelve-month old boy. His footing wasn't as secure as hers. Her nineteen-month arms gently held, then patted him as he toddled away from her. Mommy cried.