Back to our regularly scheduled programming

Friday, my man and I packed up and headed out of town. It was such a needed relief after a hellacious week. The timing was serendipitous though. We had planned this trip a while ago.
My husband's alma mater, the University of Southern Mississippi, was playing Tulane in New Orleans, a city we die for — or at least look for any excuse to visit. And it would be my first night away from baby, a trial run for the upcoming Birthday Beach Bash. (I believe it should have a proper title; I am turning 30 after all).
Friday was spent eating and shopping and eating along Magazine Street. My first 24 hours in NOLA I ate: truffled butternut squash bisque and grilled marlin in a satsuma beurre blanc at Martinque Bistro, a pistachio and cherry pastry and chocolate and hazelnut mousse at Sucré, duck confit with lentils and figs, julienned kale salad with beets and citrus and seared tuna over fingerling potatoes, fennel and olives at Gautreau's. I think I ate all the butter and cream from the Croissant, I mean Crescent, City.
But enough of what I ate. This blog ain't Feeding Momma.
Still, this is somewhat about me. The trip was important not just to see how Josie would do during an extended time without me but also to see how I would do.
And, if successful, it would mean Josie was fully weaned.
As usual, she did lovely. My wonderful gal has made every transition we've asked her to. She took her bottles, she ate, she played, she slept.
I sort of did the same thing. And I may have whined a little. But I had an epiphany.
I always felt guilty about leaving the babe behind. The root of that is because for so long I couldn't be more than a few hours away. My boobs and her needs wouldn't let me.
Now, she doesn't need me like that. It makes me kind of sad to admit, but she doesn't.
In fact, she really hasn't been all that interested in nursing for the last few weeks. So, even if I wanted to, she's not as in to it. Though today, she did sidle up to me and pull into standing like she wanted to be held. As I reached for her, she extended one index finger and poked me right in the boob. Poked me good and laughed.
It's also amazing how my body has adjusted. No longer do my (to use Sue Sylvester's terms) vine-ripened chest fruit become swollen grapefruits after 2 hours, 4 hours, 6 hours, 12 hours, a day without nursing.
So gals, looks like a I got you back, back to our regularly scheduled programming.