wean

Today I dug through a box of old photos from the summer we worked on a dude ranch. We were 23 and newlyweds - John got a gig as a fly fishing guide and I figured I'd do whatever. It turned out 'whatever' was a combination of bartending, cleaning cabins, and running the kids program. Funny, because I had never before tended bar, I was horrible at making beds, and I didn't really even like kids. Fake it 'til you make it, I suppose.

It was a stellar summer in the Bighorn Mountains, and when the guests retired to their cabins after a full day of fly fishing and horseback riding, the staff sort of transformed the saloon into a scene from Dirty Dancing. There were always those couple of guests like Baby who lingered long enough for the after-parties with the staff, jukebox crankin', boots kickin' and shot glasses clinking.

I look at those pictures and can't believe how young I was. I want to yell into the photograph to that girl mixing up drinks and chasing chickens and leading pony rides -- do you know how beautiful you are? Will you stop thinking you're not thin/pretty/whatever enough, you silly little girl? Oh, what the 33 year old mother-of-three me would give to look like she did when she thought she was fat.

That was 10 years ago. We left that ranch in September and road tripped until we ran out of money. We hunkered down in the Tetons for the winter to ski and snowboard and cocktail waitress and sell hotdogs at the base of the mountain to get free staff passes for the lift, and wouldn't you know, that cozy little cabin on the confluence of the Snake and the Hoback rivers was just the right atmosphere for making babies. And so it was that 9 years ago this winter I was pregnant with my boy, named for Mt. Owen of the Teton Range, the peak behind the Grand.

He wasn't planned, but we rolled with it. And we kept on rolling, adding Eli and then Axel. And this past August was just four months shy of marking nine years straight that I was either pregnant or breastfeeding, and at times - both. That's right. On Aug. 10, Axel nursed for the last time, at 33 months old. This last month has been one of physical transitions, and it's surreal to think that my body is done with that phase of my life. No more pregnancies, no more babies, no more nursing. I'm surprised that I haven't cried.

I miss my youth and my days of ease and minimal responsibility. I miss my pre-mama body. But I also miss having newborns and toddlers and being pregnant and giving birth and I am so, so good where I am right now. I think this is what happens when you love your life. You love it and you miss it when it's gone even while loving the very new thing that is just beginning.