It has been a long three-ish years since the birth of my twin daughters. Well over a year ago, they weaned and for me, that was the end of an era of attachment parenting in our lives. As a mother of two older boys, also, I had already “baby bonded” with all of my kids. We breastfed, we co-slept, we did our own form of baby wearing called “let’s just carry you everywhere since I can’t get this sling to work.” I listened to their needs; never let them “cry it out” and pretty much helped to create the unique, rotten and amazing beings they are today by letting them guide us in their individual paths toward toddlerhood and beyond.

I registered for a “meetup” group online (it’s a mommy club, I admit) that invites attachment parenting advocates and their children to meet locally. Most of these parents have kids who are still in diapers (cloth and ‘sposies) and are still breastfeeding. On the application for joining this group, it asks what I do with my kids that I consider “attachment parenting.” I’ve graduated from having my children constantly attached to my nipple my hip to an elder of this “new” and “alternative” parenting movement, so what do I say? I’m still at home with them, working and studying in between snacks, crafts and playtime. I still wake up when they cry at night, even if it is just because a toy fell on the ground. Sometimes we lay on the couch or floor together, and once in a while, they insist that I hold their cups for them, but mostly, we are done with AP.

So, what comes next? After attachment parenting ends, or at least the major aspects of AP, what does a former AP parent call herself? Have I reformed? Am I a survivor? Does this mean I get a membership card, a lapel pin and I get to know the secret handshake? Can I go forth and spread the gospel of AP, knowing that I’m no longer in danger of leaking milk through my shirt?

I’m not sure where this leaves me, but I know that when I was still in the official AP club I did cherish every moment I could, because I knew how fleeting it would be. Those years go fast in retrospect, but not in the moment. Some days, it’s all you can do to slap on some patchouli or Chanel and call yourself “showered.” I find it funny when I’m asked if I plan to have more kids. Granted, it’s usually by some smarty-pants woman who sees me and my four children on our 5th potty break since we entered Target ten minutes prior. I still get the twinge, but its nice to be detached, too.

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