It’s always been part of the bedtime routine. When he was a newborn, he’d fall asleep soon after nursing.  A full belly and a baby smirk sent him off to twitchy-baby-dream land.  Food coma does run in the family; just ask my husband.

Now that T9 is older, drinking whole milk,  getting the occasional bottle, and scoping out which of his brother’s toys he’ll DESTROY next, this feed-and-slumber is still part of the routine.  About an hour after dinner, I slide his chubby legs into his footsie pajamas, grab his favorite blankie, and then head to the kitchen to pour him a nightcap.

Which, in this case, is milk warmed for exactly 33 seconds in the microwave. (No, 30 seconds is NOT enough time, actually. This is what I *do* people.)

Sure, the articles tell you not to do this–not to combine the bottle with nighttime.  But, eh.   It’s not like I’m laying him down with the thing.  Neither of my kids have ever had an ear infection, either.  So in the end, I’m never above plugging my ears and LALALALA-ing the great faceless THEY who preach such things. My bottom line for you? Giving a kid a bottle before bed will not lower his IQ, keep him awake all night, or make him hate his parents.  This all happens much later. In college.

But anyway, the other day, as I was bringing T9 around to say goodnight to his DAH-DEE and BRAH-VAH (”brother” that is. My son sometimes slips into foreign tongues).  As I handed him to his dad, however, the boy clung to me like a monkey.  One hand grabbed my shirt (and breast, unfortunately. OW.), the other my hair, and I’m pretty sure his big toe was tangled in a belt loop.  He may have a future in movies folks. If they ever need a new Gollum, that is.

So it was in this moment that my husband and I simultaneously noticed that the boy was forming an—say, unhealthy? absurd? PAINFUL?–attachment to his bottle.  I looked at it in my hand, connected the dots to T9’s focused gaze, and frowned a bit.  AFTER releasing my boob from his clutch.

I pouted not because of the challenge that lay ahead, but because my world had become a bit darker with the realization that the bah-bah bonding time was coming to an end.  T9’s, however, apparently became brighter.  Bright white, to be precise: cool, white, dripping with milk, and topped with a latex nipple.  In fact, there appeared to be one attached to my husband’s head, as T9 more or less tried to suck on it rather than offer up his typical MMM-AH! goodnight kiss.

Houston? Um, this is awkward.

So that was it.  A decision had been made.  It was time to get T9 completely off the bottle.  It wasn’t going to be a total shock, as he’d already been getting sippy cups throughout the day.  Bottles, you see, were strictly still a sleepytime thing. A sleepytime, let-mama-pretend-you’re-still-a-newborn-as-I-rock-you-and-grasp-to-your-last-ounces-of-infancy kind of thing.

Perhaps *mine* was the unhealthy attachment.

Ahem.

The next day, I tried it out at nap time.  T9 looked at the cup, then looked at me.  “Bah-bah?” he asked.

I corrected him, “MILK.”

He nodded.  “MIYL.” Then he grabbed it and walked toward his bedroom.

And that?  That was it.

Did the kid protest? Of course not. He’s still trying to figure out how to remove his toes once he gets his shoes and socks off.

Did I protest? Damn straight I did. I was all, “BUT MAH BAYBEEE! *sniffle* *snort*  WAIT–I have an idea! Quick! Hit him with a tranq dark or something to stunt his growth and development. Oh FORGET IT!  WAHHH.”

This was mental protesting, I should add.  I hadn’t yet gotten out the poster board or fully launched my Twitter ribbon campaign.

And here we are.  Day 3 off the bottle.  And he’s still a snuggle bear with a reverse bald spot who can barely chew meat.

I think I can live with that.