The Dairy Queen is closed

Claire's boobin' days are over. I can't believe it. I force-weaned my baby. Odd, though, I feel both guilty and elated. My boobs haven't been MY boobs in nearly four years. Oh yes, you read that right: FOUR FREAKING YEARS. For four years, my boobs have been pawed at, sucked on, spit up on, pummelled, and bitten, and I still had to nurse the baby on top of that! (ba dum dum...thank you folks, I'll be here all week!)

You would think that I would be 100%, jumpin' jehosephat, cat's pajamas happy about this; yet I'm not. What the hell? I realize that I'm not going to get better (read: quit being a freaky, psycho bitch) until I can get on some hard-core meds, but I feel like I'm failing as a mother, too. OH. THE. GUILT. She still asks, too. She looks at me with that God-given, precious, little face, and asks, "Boobies? Pease?" and I have to tell her NO. UGH. Just slap me on the ass and call me Satan.

No, I'm not one of "those" mothers who planned to breastfeed until little Daisy-Mae could hop off the school bus and ask, "Momma, ware are ma tiddies?" No, no, no. My cutoff was two years (which may seem like a freakish thing to those of you who haven't nursed, or only did so for a bit, but it's really not uncommon).

I'm rather sad about this, but I am looking forward to wonderful things, now that my parasitic relationship with my youngest has come to an end:

-No more having to worry about the boobs leaking during random times.
-No more oversized, humongous boobs.
-No more bras that are so big, they could shelter the homeless of Houston.

And I must say, I got out of this whole thing relatively unscathed. I had always heard the horror stories of what my boobs would look like after nursing. Well, let me tell ya: They look like boobs. They look like the same 'ol boobs I had before I became a snack machine. So, stick it!

So now we come to the ending of an era. There will be no more "special" booby-time in the rocking chair. No more calming boobies during tantrums. No more "I luh you" whispered to my boobies as she pats it with her chubby hand.

However, I have done my work as a mother. Like mothers before me, I have given my children the best start they could possibly have. I have subjected myself to the tortuous rigors of the breast pump, and have deposited delicious rolls of baby fat on the buttermilk arms and legs of my children with my miraculous boob juice. Both my girls are happy, loving, and healthy. Man, I rock.

So, to all of you, I now say: The milk bar is CLOSED.