Every year at Stock Show I'd shuffle my pig around the pen with the cane, working up a couple tears as suggested in order to drive up the sympathy vote and land a few more dollars in my pocket. Not too many mind you, just enough to demonstrate the attachment you'd formed with this little porker you'd nurtured for the last six months, hoping to attain the perfect amount of back-fat, musculature and right at the high end of the weight range...you get paid by the pound after all.
I always ended up with the fighter pig; forced in the corner with a board around him so he didn't go crazy with the others in the ring. I inevitably got nearly dead last in showmanship, but I could raise me a fine hog and placed fairly high in finish.
While the first few tears may have been engineered, there was always that slightly sickening moment when the last ring men flew up his hands with a "Yep!" and the auctioneer's cadence was silenced that you watched your little piggy go wee wee wee all the way to the holding pen. The first year, I decided I needed just 'one last time' to say good-bye so followed her through. The next year, I knew better. There will always be one more that could be your last, so you learn to just let it go when the final gavel rings and the chute falls into place separating your pig's destiny from your own.
What in the world does this have to do with boobs? Well, the past couple of nights, I've thought 'It would be so easy if I just gave in and let him nurse this one more time.' Weaning C was a cold turkey deal. Five teeth in one month makes a very chompy boy, and the fact that he laughed hysterically at my stern "NO BITING!" made me realize that this was not a game in which I would be the victor. So, cold turkey for us it is. But that doesn't mean I don't have a feeling of loss or that kind of "is this really it?!" as another phase of life slips by.
I always ended up with the fighter pig; forced in the corner with a board around him so he didn't go crazy with the others in the ring. I inevitably got nearly dead last in showmanship, but I could raise me a fine hog and placed fairly high in finish.
While the first few tears may have been engineered, there was always that slightly sickening moment when the last ring men flew up his hands with a "Yep!" and the auctioneer's cadence was silenced that you watched your little piggy go wee wee wee all the way to the holding pen. The first year, I decided I needed just 'one last time' to say good-bye so followed her through. The next year, I knew better. There will always be one more that could be your last, so you learn to just let it go when the final gavel rings and the chute falls into place separating your pig's destiny from your own.
What in the world does this have to do with boobs? Well, the past couple of nights, I've thought 'It would be so easy if I just gave in and let him nurse this one more time.' Weaning C was a cold turkey deal. Five teeth in one month makes a very chompy boy, and the fact that he laughed hysterically at my stern "NO BITING!" made me realize that this was not a game in which I would be the victor. So, cold turkey for us it is. But that doesn't mean I don't have a feeling of loss or that kind of "is this really it?!" as another phase of life slips by.
**Interestingly enough, the phrase cold turkey has it's origins from the cessation of a hard to quit habit; heroin use. As an addict stops using the drug, blood is drawn toward the internal organs, thereby leaving the skin to resemble a cold, plucked turkey. Just your little fun fact for the day. Heroin addicts also gave us the term "kick the habit" due to the leg twitches resulting from withdrawl.
