The Bottle

Of the many milestones that mark the passage of a child's growth, I think potty training and giving up the bottle most decisively leave behind the baby days. Since potty training is still at least 6 months away, I'm happy to accept the latter for now.

If it weren't for the books and experts admonishing the bottle past 18 months of age, I'd probably let Gigi have it indefinitely, as long as she promised not to take it to prom. The bottle has been our best friend since birth (with daddy and brother tied for second). Yes, the bottle has been good to us.

It offered respite from the pain of breastfeeding around the clock in those early weeks.

It was my ticket to freedom when I needed an hour or two away from home to cut my hair or date my husband.

It allowed us the satisfaction of seeing exactly how much our baby was eating, because you never know with those tricky boobs.

It bought us precious extra minutes of sleep at five in the morning, when we could give her a bottle and put her back down.

It provided short but essential breaks from unexplainable fussing.

It was the surest way to get her to sleep at naptime or bedtime.

But things had to change, or I wasn't doing my job. She was two months past the cutoff date and besides, sippy cups are just easier to clean and easier to substitute for, say, a to-go cup from Starbucks, not that I ever need that option, but in an emergency, it'd be handy.

So I started weaning her from the bottle a month ago; only bottles at nap-nap and nigh-night time. Not a problem, as long as I kept the bottles hidden when it was sippy cup time.

Last weekend as I was handing her a sippy cup with warm milk, she freaked out. "Nyooo!!" she said, pointing above her head. There on the kitchen counter, sparkling in a ray of evening sun, was a bottle. Uh-oh. I panicked for a moment, but didn't give in. I deftly distracted her with a banana, and when she was out of the kitchen, I packed up all the bottles and put them out of sight, forever.

Now that they're gone, we do have to get up a bit earlier, and at bedtime she demands we show her that Harrison, as well as the baby in her Leslie Patricelli books, are going nigh-night too. But I have to say it's gone better than expected. She doesn't do the excited bottle-laugh and bottle-dance when I hand her a sippy cup, but she does take it.

I thought about this milestone later in the week when I went for a walk. Alone with no distractions, I thought I might get a little choked up. She was no longer a baby. Instead I smiled, knowing that potty training was still on the horizon.