The second made it to 19 months, and then I was gone on a trip for five days. When I got back, I offered, but she declined. A week later, she asked, but it was pretty much too late. She still looks at my breasts in fascination and talks about how they gave yummy milk. She does remember nursing still, and she’s almost four. She also asks me when I’m going to have another baby so I can make more yummy milk. At age 38 and on the verge of divorce, I don’t know if that’s happening.

My breasts still ache when I hear a newborn cry. My mother, who nursed all four of us (between 1963 and 1976, when it was Not Done!) says hers do too.

I so much miss the closeness of a teenyone snuggling up to me. I only wish my life were more stable so I could even consider the pros and cons of another.

But at various times I’ve really wanted to – when she was about 13 months I got a cut on one of my nipples that quickly graduated to an open wound – feeding was excruciatingly painful and I only managed, and managed to get it to heal, with a gerry-rigged nipple guard and various gunky concoctions that I made up from creams and ointments. Ever since then, although things got back to normal, I’ve had the memory of that pain at the back of my mind and any time I get even the slightest bit sore I nearly panic. So I won’t miss that, anyway, even if I miss all the rest!

Life is weird.