A separation

there goes my baby

I’ve been noticing a shift in Noah’s affections as we near the end of the weaning process. What feels like just days and weeks ago, I was irreplaceable. You could give him all the fruit and toys his little heart desired (remotes, spoons, dangerous glass figurines are his preference) and you still couldn’t touch me for whom his body said was home. In times of hurt and fear especially—getting his injections, being in his feeding chair for four extra seconds, seeing a bearded man—the remedy has been a kiss and a cuddle from me.

In the early days, his blind faith in me would surprise and frighten me a little. There’d be times when he’d be crying bitterly and it would take me a whole 5 seconds—an eternity, when a child is screaming—to realise I was the adult we both were waiting for. But as time went on, and I realised that much of motherhood is offering solace before solutions, I began to lose the performance anxiety. I learnt to envelope him as the first line of action always, until I could sense that sometimes almost imperceptible yield. Soon it was us against whatever fresh hell becoming a person constantly involves.

But the thing is, as long as I was breastfeeding him, I didn’t need to consciously nurture him all the time. My body would do the heavy lifting, spotting for me when I was mentally OOO with low internet connectivity. Which was a mercy and hall pass especially on those deeply un-maternal days. I felt like a nepo baby. Unlike the plebs, I could wing it and still get nine more chances to be his no. 1.

A separate para for the breastfeeding journey, because, god. Watching your body do science fiction? Tune in to the frequency of a whole other body, assess their needs (hydration? thin milk. calories, fat milk. sick. medicinal milk), produce rations accordingly and also send notifications when it’s time to deploy them? Swiggy really could never. Enough didn’t go the way we wanted during his birth, so I was pleasantly surprised when this part went like clockwork from the moment he was born—the latch, the supply, the bonding, 10 for 10.

Weaning him after a year and some of this sublime teamwork, has been hard on both of us. The arrival of his now-beloved nanny, around the same time may have papered over the hurt of the separation for him. She is really wonderful with him, deeply attuned and able to gamify his entire day, in a way he respects. Which has also meant that I’ve felt able to let go, step back, and direct some of my energy to re-entering polite society. But there is no mistaking it’s in there somewhere.

Except for when he’s besides himself with sleep or sickness, now his dad and nanny can take my place. We’re still great colleagues and friends but the quickness with which he extracts himself from my arms when they enter the room, oh it smarts. It’s perfectly reasonable too, when you think about it. For him, their performance has stayed consistent or exceeded expectations year over year, while I’ve pretty much reneged on my contract.

The other day, we were at the seaside promenade we go to each evening, and he really wanted to walk on top of the boundary wall—presumably the danger in it was calling his name. I lifted him up onto it and held him as he went a few steps, squealing with delight…until he looked up, and realised it was his arch enemy who was holding him. To rectify the horrible oversight, he flung his body off the wall (I had him), and once down, he wrestled out of my grasp, grabbed his didi’s hand and signalled he wanted her to put him back up on the wall. She did and off he went again on his merry, corrected, way. Children are so brutal, it’s beautiful.

It looks like I’m going to have to make an extra and sustained effort to win back his affection and trust, now that the thing they came free with is over. I guess it is hard being a nepo baby.