Last month, I shared my story about weaning Emily. It had a sweet, easy ending, but things didn't end there. About a week after her last nurse, Emily started having a series of big, explosive tantrums, something she's never had before. One afternoon when I went to pick her up at Little School, her meltdown was specifically about nursing. She hadn't napped and was out of sorts and couldn't figure out another way to reconnect with me at the end of the day. Nursing was the only thing that would work and it was no longer available.
      Last night, her big tantrum was because I ate one piece of her popcorn after dinner. "You can't have any of my popcorn! I didn't want to share it!" she wailed for more than hour. I sat on the couch and watched her. She wouldn't let me get closer to her than that, not even with my little toe, so I stayed in my assigned seat and reached out to her through my eyes with all the love and compassion I could muster.
      Later that same night, at bedtime, she begged for a bottle (which she doesn't get) or a video (a rare treat in our house), and insisted as she wailed and kicked, "A bottle or a video! Nothing else will make me feel better!" I certainly could relate to her feelings. There have been times I felt nothing else would do, either.
      Finally, after I listened to her scream and kick and yell for a long time, Emily settled on lying on my bare chest and listening to a chapter of Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz. Her sobs slowly subsided as we learned how Dorothy and the Wizard and Zeb and Eureka (the cat) and Jim (the cab-horse) escaped into the mountain from the land of the wooden gargoyles.
      This morning there was another explosion. Emily's Dorothy dress and socks were in the wash and she couldn't be Dorothy. (In Emily's mind, if there is no costume, there is no character.) Then we forgot to bring Toto to school, and that pushed Emily right over the edge. I had to carry her kicking and screaming into Little School, and when I told her I didn't have time to go home and retrieve Toto, she laid down and kicked for a long time. Finally, it was time to take Justin to school, and I had to leave her, crying and out of sorts, in Lisa's arms. And this is our cheerful girl who happily goes to school each day, delighted with whatever adventure she's going to find there.
      Her reaction may be a bit delayed, but our girl is definitely having a hard time.

      Loss is not easy at any age. Loss that comes from the outside, that someone else (or life) imposes on us, is even rougher. Emily didn't have any say in her weaning. I made a unilateral decision and she had to comply. At two-and-three-quarters, she was faced with having to marshal all of her resources to cope with, what for her, must have been a momentous loss. I've supported her, listened to her, made room for her sad, lost, and angry feelings, but I drew the line-no more nursing, and held it fast.
      When I first became a parent, no one ever told me how hard it would be to set limits-and hold them-in the face of a teary, raging, angry child. For me, staying firm when my children hate me, is one of the toughest parts of parenting.
      There have been times these past few weeks when I've asked myself, "Was it worth it to turn my daughter's world upside down-to take away the thing she depends on most for solace and comfort?" Confronted with Emily's face contorted in grief or flooded with angry tears, watching her kick and scream inconsolably on the floor, I've had to wonder. But when I come back to myself, I know it was time for me to wean her, and that my resilient daughter will find her way back to equilibrium. But it is hard to watch her suffer when I know my needs were the cause.

      If I hadn't chosen this time to wean Emily, my guess is that she would have moved on to this next stage of development anyway. The weaning just gave a jumpstart to her new push toward autonomy. Yet coming so suddenly on the heels of her weaning, it's taken us both by surprise. Emily is faced with the bewilderment of having her beloved nur-nurs taken away, and I'm faced with learning to love my daughter now that she's filled with sadness, defiance and rage.
      Emily has always been a child who is easy to love-she's been sweet, cooperative, and adorable for a long time. But now that she is in my face, telling me in no uncertain terms that she doesn't like me, and that she won't do what I'm asking her to do, "love" has taken on a much deeper meaning.
      These last weeks with Emily have reminded me that there's nothing more intimate than deeply loving a child through the worst of her feelings. When I continue to love Emily, despite the fact that she is raging at me with flailing fists, angry words and a contorted, snotty, face, I know have entered the sanctuary of unconditional love.
      I don't always make it there. There are times I'm too pressed, too ruled by time and deadlines and commitments, to see her humanity as she fiercely defies me for the hundredth time. But at my best moments, when Emily heads into that place of, "I'm not gonna and you can't make me," I see it as an opportunity to practice loving all of her. And when I can do that, I know I am giving her something every bit as precious and life-sustaining as her once-beloved nur-nurs.