sweet weanling

i gave in this morning. 

an hour before the alarm was due to go off, i slinked from my bed and stole 'lou from his, tiptoeing with his sleeping form like a thief in the night. 

i mashed him up against me, head tucked under my chin, his legs curled up and tucked into my belly with a toehold secured at the tops of my thighs. 

i stroked his back, i squeezed his palm-sized babycakes, i snuffled his sunshine-and puppy-dog hair.

i curled his mini-palm over my lips and put a secret kiss there to get him through his day, my mouth fitting perfectly into his little hand.

i watched him sigh, silken lashes fluttering against his porcelain cheek. he dreamt of nursing, lips puckered in a kissy-pout, working his dream-milk out in a rhythmic suckle that matched the beating of my heart - slow and languid; utterly content.

i nibbled his little banana chip ear and whispered,
"what are you dreaming about?"
without so much as fluttering his lashes, he whispered back huskily, 
"milkmumma" 
as if they were one and the same.

just as i was drifting off, he pulled me back with his lispy little sleep-whisper: 
"you can just steal me today, tomorrow i have to be big again."

my last sweet weanling, how can 5 1/2 years of nursing suddenly feel like the blink of an eye when it's done?