The day the boobies dried.

Maisie Mouse was being a bit of a grump this morning. Just a bit scratchy, a bit off. We had to drop Jack at the Kiss 'n' Go at the school gate this morning instead of walking him in, but we've done that before and she has never had a problem waving like a maniac from the back seat. We left Phoebalina for an extra day at kinder, and the Mouse didn't seem to have a problem with that, either.

But as we drove home to meet Aunty Miffy back at our house, Miss Mouse yelled. And whinged. And squirmed. Either she was not a fan of the classic "9 at 9" on Gold 104, or there was something bothering her.

I thought as I drove along, trying to ignore the tempest growing in the back seat. What could be troubling my littlest demon? She has recently developed an abiding hatred of having a dirty nappy (more than usual, as she's never been tolerant of a less-than-fragrant Huggies), and will throw a little tanty if I don't change her IMMEDIATELY. But she was clean and fresh, so that wasn't the problem.

She had been given a drink of "more" (which normal people call water) before we left the house (complete with an enthusiastic "Cheers!"), so she couldn't be thirsty. And she had devoured her brekkie as usual, so she shouldn't have been hungry. She had slept for twelve hours, only sleep-talking for a few minutes at midnight (which never fails to scare the bejeesus out of Mama...)

She had pretty shoes on (always a necessity for happiness, according to the rules of the Mouse), clutched a "Rora boop" (Dora book - well, duh!) in her big girl MaxiRider car seat, and had Mummy all to herself. So far, so good in the world of the Mouse.

As I negotiated the never-ending roadworks that are strewn from our house to the school, I wondered - when was her last breastfeed? Could she possibly be missing her special Mummy cuddles? Was it comfort that she was seeking?

This might sound absolutely terrible, but I couldn't actually remember when Maisie's last feed was. I can remember having it - it was early morning, snuggled in bed, and she was sleepy and more settled than normal. She fed for a long time while one little hand patted me softly (and with the notable absence of kicking feet and gnawing teeth). It was some time last week, I'm sure. But with my recent illness, the early mornings of working days and her new habit of playing with the kids in her cot in the mornings, I couldn't remember exactly when our last snuggle had been.

Just to tick the box more than anything, when we arrived home I scooped her up in a hug and sat on the couch. I opened my blouse and offered her a drink. She kissed my breast, pursed her little lips, and said, "No, Mummy. Bye-bye boobies." I asked her, "Bye bye boobies? No more?" She laughed and in reply, pulled my top down over my chest. And that was that.

And I couldn't have asked for a better weaning experience from my youngest baby.

I've blogged before about breastfeeding an older toddler, and how I relished it. Breastfeeding Maisie has been one of the triumphs of my parenting life so far, if only because it was so hard-won. Considering the obstacles we overcame to establish such a strong, long-term breastfeeding relationship, I enjoyed every minute. I didn't want it to be me who drew it to a close (unless it was as I was waving her off to uni - then I might have had a problem). In my happiest dreams, Maisie would make her own mind up when she was ready to wean.

It's been so gradual, there has been no pain. This might not sound like a big deal, but for someone who has always had enough milk for triplets, I was always cautious of this before with the other two. There has been no need to substitute other drinks of milk or extra cuddles - she just now goes to bed when the big kids do, and with the Mouse there's always oodles of tuddles. Most amazingly, there has been no tears. Certainly not from Mais, my happy little girl who is so sure of her own mind. And incredibly, not from me.

We are both ready for this. It is the right time. I can calmly and happily say that I fed my last baby for twenty-two months, and when she was ready, we stopped. It is one more step away from babyhood for my littlest girl, and I am proud of her for taking that step so confidently and with a great sense of humour. No doubt at some point in the future I will feel a pang watching another mother feed her baby. Right now, though, the only pang I feel is the one I get when I look in my underwear drawer and see my tired, five-year-old maternity bras. Urgh.

So I would like to thank the Mouse for being so gentle with her Mumma. For taking her time, and letting this chapter in our lives close quietly, and without fanfare. For letting me enjoy it for so long, but also be quite happy for it to end. For not following her brother's lead, and self-weaning abruptly from three feeds a day to none in one fell swoop. For giving me the chance to redeem my failure to breastfeed Phoebe (and yes, I know it wasn't anyone's fault; and yes, I know bottle-feeding isn't a failure; and yes, I've blogged about this before; and no, I'm not judging anyone. OK? Ok.) For being such an affectionate little bunny, dispensing so many kisses and cuddles that I didn't even notice that the special cuddles were missing until they were gone.

Thanks Mais. I love you more than space. I only have one teeny-tiny problem with all of this (and I hate to complain, but...) - if I can't stuff a boob in your mouth when you wake up loud and chatty at 5:30 in the morning, does this mean we'll have to get up? Or does self-weaning mean you're old enough to make your own Weetbix?