I’m pretty sure this morning was my and The Kid’s last nursing session. It ended not with a whimper, but a bang: several clamp-downs in rapid succession, his gums on my chesticles, and since the first time didn’t hurt, I laughed. Big mistake. He turned to me, all grins and morning mood, delighted with his comedy skills, and chomped down again. And again. So I scooped him up, brought him downstairs, and made a bottle of formula. As he drank it, he studied my face exactly the way he did when he nursed. We’re going to be okay.

“Are you sad?” my friend asked when I told her later–and she’s not the annoying kind who tries to project her insecurities onto you or convince you to feel the same way she does so she won’t be alone–so I knew her question was sincere. And I answered sincerely, with a no, more because I’ve decided to feel that way rather than let the current of maternal insecurity that’s taking over our nation drag me along for the ride. Six months was my nursing goal, and I surpassed it by one week, and even if I hadn’t? We’d all still be okay. That’s the convenient part of believing in a higher power who happens to be smarter and more sovereign than I am. I don’t have to accompany each milestone with a grieving process, wailing over the speedy passage of time, because each day The Kid is becoming more of the person he was made to be. And that is cause for celebration, not sadness. Which is why I’m drinking a bottle of champagne by myself at 10 am. (KIDDING! I don’t drink alone. So I drink until I see two of me, to have company. KIDDING AGAIN.)

As TK grows into himself–at his six month appointment on Friday, we were told that he jumped from the 10th to the 25th percentile in weight…BAM!–I’m watching my body revert back to its old ways. Nursing never really did it for me in the weight-loss department, after the hospital doors closed behind us at least. So I’ve become reacquainted with my old friend Exercise after those months of doctor-ordered limited activity, and the fun part has been that every day holds a new personal record when you’re starting at zero. I’m getting my running mojo back, and it doesn’t hurt to have a spin instructor with a passion for 90’s music that rivals my own. Once my boobs stop leaking I’ll be good as new…or old, as the case may be.

And the cleaning lady, in case you were wondering? AMAZING. I came home like a kid on Christmas morning and just breathed in the lemony freshness for a few minutes. I haven’t had a cleaning service since I was in college and our twice-weekly maid held the unenviable task of cleaning the previous weekend’s puke ring out of the toilet. I learned lessons of grace for years as I hunched over toilets myself; now I’m learning about it by letting go of that little daily cleaning schedule I had created and enjoying a gift given despite my not deserving it. Which, I’m pretty sure, is the definition of grace. So that’s what we’re up to here: getting cleaned up by someone else, and growing into ourselves. The way things should be.