The end of an era

As Josie grows closer to becoming fully weaned, I find myself mourning the loss of the tender moments of nursing.
I mean hurray Upcoming Weeklong Surprise Birthday Trip to Somewhere Beachy! But also, boo hoo. (Or should that be boob who?)
I miss nursing times more than I thought I would. Did I cherish those times enough? When it was just the two of us snuggled close in the wee hours of dawn, in the thick dark of the evening, in the fading glow of late afternoon following a long day at work? When I could lull her to sleep, skin against skin?
Perhaps, part of my woe is that Josie is almost a toddler. That means no longer a baby, my baby.
So I am replaying the nursings in my mind sometimes — sort of like I did her birth — to savor them a little longer, to squeeze out the last drops of warm fuzziness until the memories dissipate and are eventually replaced.
And to help with the mourning, I celebrate the new. The pulling up on everything and beaming at her new found stance. The constant gibberish chatter that almost sounds like language. The recognition of people and places that are constants in her life.
She's also helped me overcome the mourning in her own charming way. Like earlier this morning when instead of allowing me to nurse her in bed (which I do to coax her into letting me sleep just a half hour longer), she snuggled up in a crescent across my chest, laid her head in the crook of my elbow and patted my face.
Then, without warning, she bit the stew out of my forearm. Teeth! Ah yes, like razors. And so maybe I mourn the nursing times a little less.