My son, who turns 3 in September, is weaning himself from breastfeeding.

I mean, technically, he’s been weaning himself since his first taste of rice cereal at 6 months. And I do mean “weaning himself.” I’ve followed his lead all along, and sure enough, he’d slowly drop a feeding at a time until he was down to nursing in the morning and before bedtime. I suppose this is called “baby-led weaning,” but for us, it’s just natural—no process or plan to speak of, just life.

It’s been that way for a while now, our faithful two-a-day standby.

Until this week. He skipped his morning feeding two days in a row, although this morning he woke up, calling, “ I want milk! Please give me what I’m asking for!” And I did.

Tonight, he didn’t ask for milk before bed, and I didn’t offer. I paused, wondering how to phrase such a simple question. “Do you want to pop into bed and have some stories?” I asked, finally. He immediately climbed into bed with his water cup and huddled up with his two favorite bedtime accessories, Panda Blanket and Other Blanket (Tommy named them, if you couldn’t tell).

I felt like I could barely breathe, but told him two stories, snuggled him tight and said goodnight.

This is the first time, with the exception of one night when I was too ill to do so, that I have not breastfed him before bed in his whole life.

That means, you might have guessed, that I have never spent a night apart from him. I have always arranged my schedule to accommodate nightly nursing. I never felt limited or restrained in this respect; it suited me and my homebody ways. Still, as I realize our time breastfeeding is coming to an end, I get an occasional thrill, realizing what this might mean: dare I imagine going out to dinner and a movie? Or even leaving town, sans boy?

I will enjoy those perks of weaning later. As far as I know, Tommy will climb into our bed in the morning ready for his ritual snack. Or he might not. Right now, minutes after putting my boy to bed while keeping my shirt intact, I feel very melancholy. In fact, I feel like crying. I just might do that. Breastfeeding my son may not be completely over, but for the first time, the end is truly in sight.  My identity will shift. My body will change. I will grieve the loss of a bonding time particular to us and only us, and celebrate the way my son is growing and astonishing us all with his wit and insight and empathy and compassion.

When I was 19 and visiting Paris art museums, I stood in front of Georges Lacombe’s “Isis,” a sculpture depicting the naked goddess holding her breasts, blood pouring fourth like red rivers from the nipples. Isis is the goddess of fertility and motherhood, and her symbolic knot is sometimes called the Blood of Isis. Makes sense, right? I thought it looked weird.

Now, as a mother, I almost laugh when I think about it. Oh, the pain! Oh, the sacrifice! Any mother (breastfeeding or not, really) can relate. But if you look at Isis’ face as Lacombe made her, her brow is unfurrowed, her eyes are peacefully closed, her mouth is relaxed. There is no pain there. Her offering is a fact of life.

Weaning is a fact of life, too. My boy is asleep in his bed, healthy and happy and intensely loved. That is a fact of life.