We're done

I didn't make it a year. Despite my bitching and moaning about nursing Baby, I really wanted to make it a year. I really wanted to do what's best for him because I am certain that there will be many times in his life that I don't do what's best for him. The no-turning back, no more discussions about this came on Thursday night while I was at cooking class. I ate some peanut brittle and that sealed the decision.
Husband and I had already made the decision earlier that day. I'd gone to my doctor because I had a cold that wasn't going away. She wanted to put me on antibiotics, and since we have some penicillin allergies in my family, I told her I didn't want penicillin. She prescribed something else and then told me that there wasn't enough information to know conclusively what the drug does during lactation. But, it's probably okay, she said. Here's the thing. Husband and I tend to be somewhat laid back people, but we don't do well with "it's probably okay," at least not when it comes to our child.
I'm a lot sadder about this than I expected to be. I've hated nursing, except when it allowed me to get away with reading or watching TV or playing online. But to know that it's never going to happen again is making me strangely sad. I'm not sure why. I've felt more bonded to Baby when we've played or when I rock him before bed or when we nap, rather than when he nursed. I'm going to chalk it all up to hormones.
I haven't had any alcohol yet, nor have I eaten any peanut butter, but the peanut brittle from cooking class is long gone.