My son, Raphael, is almost 8 months old, but I feel like we’re slowly breaking up. A breastfeeding breakup, if you will. I can see the end looming – over the last few weeks, it’s been hurtling towards us.

My breastfeeding goal was 6 months, so I’m stoked that we got this far (thank you electric pumps), but now my supply is starting to wane – and quickly.

At a surface level, I’m okay with it. But emotionally, I’m a wreck.

We’re currently mixed feeding, and he loves the bottle. My husband, eldest son and the grandparents can enjoy feeding time with him. Bottle feeding is great. I’m also excited to wear normal bras again and outfits that don’t require room for pumps. I won’t have to think about pumping and storing milk at work (and then forgetting it in the fridge over the weekend). I’ll have more bodily autonomy. I can even have a couple of extra wines on girls night. There are definite, practical, upsides.

It’s not even the decreased milk supply that makes me sad – it’s the bond I’ve built with my little boy that feels so connected to breastfeeding. It’s the "O" shape his juicy little lips make, knowing he’s about to get my boob. It’s the way he latches on and then grunts with comfort. It’s the gentle hand slaps on my chest as he suckles. The way he comes off to stop and stare at me, like he can see into my soul. The cheeky smile after I yelp, because he’s bitten me with his new tooth. This bond is ours alone. We’ve been a package deal from day dot: mummy and Raphael. I have loved that connection. I’ve loved him needing me; being at his beck and call, as his literal lifeline and ultimate comfort in this big, new world outside my belly. Call me crazy, but my favourite feeds were (and still are) in the dead of night. As exhausted as I was, no one else got that time with him. He’d look at me with the happiest smile, and in the pitch-black darkness, it felt like we were the only people on earth. We always had each other for company.

My breastfeeding journey was so different with our first son, Valentino. I pumped as much as I could at home and at work, but my supply plummeted around 4 months. I watched my expressed milk go from 110, to 75, 55, and then 25ml from both boobs. It was a much more matter-of-fact experience; I couldn’t breastfeed anymore, so he would have formula. We made the switch without much of a second thought. He adjusted well and I was appreciative of that.

Maybe the real reason for this bittersweet feeling is because I know Raphael is our last baby. Every first for him is a last for me. With Valentino, we knew we wanted a second baby, so it was okay if my first breastfeeding experience was cut shorter than I had anticipated. This time everything feels deeper.

In the depths of my mum guilt musings, I sometimes wonder if I’m holding onto breastfeeding for my sake, rather than Raphael’s. Does that make me selfish? At the same time, I feel guilty for looking forward to the upsides of full-time bottle feeding. Does that make me a mum who isn’t committed enough? I think my deepest insecurity is that maybe my milk is what gives him goo-goo eyes for me. I know that sounds silly (and definitely is not true), but the hormones are flowing hard 8 months postpartum, with my milk slowing down and my period settling back in again. Feelings are tricky to navigate right now, and I know I need to give myself some grace.

I know that my sadness for this "end" is the first of many. This feeling a precursor for every milestone to come in both my sons’ lives. The first tiny step of them becoming their own person and less of me. My first test at letting go.

A friend of mine who has adult sons said that having boys is like going through one big, long breakup. They’re born, and then it’s just a process of them gradually leaving you. This is obviously, gut-wrenching and heartbreaking, but maybe that's what makes motherhood so powerful, knowing that change is the only constant. Don't get me wrong, I want them to grow up. I want to see them discover the world, themselves and the life they want to lead – just maybe not so fast.