Three years, one and a half months:
Toddler is thriving. She has a feed in the mornings, and usually one at bedtime as well - that one has a time limit of two songs. Lately, they've been "Dance to thy Daddy" and "Can your pony take us walking, Uncle Joe?"
During the day, she sometimes asks for a feed if she suffers a bop; these tend to be limited to a count of "1 milk, 2 milk, 3 milk, 4 milk, 5 milk, all done now."
Toilet training is going fairly well, as far as we can tell. Sometimes I suspect that she doesn't drink enough, but I try to remind her.
Nine and a half months:
Baby is blossoming! She plays with solid foods, even eats them sometimes, but is still clearly and definitely a milk-fed pumpkin; is that alright? Her skin is glorious, real roses and cream, or possibly peaches and cream - soft and edible and flawless, anyway. She's chubby and strong and communicative, mobile and inquisitive and opinionated, her teeth are strong and bright... and gappy... she experiments with a wide variety of foods but doesn't eat very much of any of them. She seems to like garlic and basil.
I hid from my sisters, when they visited recently, because I couldn't bear the effort of defending us to them if they saw me breastfeeding my normous giant toggler girl. They avert their faces when I feed Baby, so I knew they'd be uncomfortable with it... Bad Feminist, No Empowerment.
I am ashamed of my cowardice.