The Last Time

They got bigger and that is how my husband knew that I was pregnant.  The milk production had been in the works just as long as you.  There was the time we caught you on the ultrasound sucking on an invisible breast.

Seconds after being born, your tiny inch-long mouth clamped on so hard, I bled.

The day after, I waddled into the hospital bathroom to discover I was all Dolly Parton under my nightgown.  The milk was fully in.

They swelled and turned red.  I put cabbage on them to stop the pain, like a modest, German Birth of Venus.

There was the time, awoken by frantic screams at 2:43 AM, I hoisted you up. My nipple huge, practically blinking and yelling, “DRINK HERE,” yet you struggled to find it.  I squeezed my nipple to try to attach your wailing little suction cup mouth to me.  You found it, but the milk did not flow right away. You hurled yourself away, wailing and waking the neighborhood.  I tried again and again.  Then, silence.

There was the time you grabbed my boob with both hands as if it were a hamburger.

There was the time you were suckling, not drinking, drifting into sleep for much longer than necessary until we were both motionless.

There was the time I yelled at my husband to grow some damn breasts.

There was the time you released your mouth with a satisfying little pop to smile.  Baby with a milk mustache and milk beard, round tummy releasing an echoing burp.

There was the time both of us were red faced and stained with tears.  A spoonful of mashed peas smothered on the floor.  Catching our breath after crying, you back at the breast.  Not ready for solid foods yet.

There were all the times you pulled on and pulled out my hair and yanked away the privacy cloth.

There was the time I breast fed you on a train, at your cousin’s judo match, answering the door, chasing your brother at a rest stop and after running a half-marathon. A few people stared. Its not everyday that you see a mommy warrior.

There was the time I nestle in to our favorite spot on the couch, milk tingling inside me.  You sneaking peeks at the dog while you drank.  Your thick baby hands with dots for knuckles waving around for something.  It took just five minutes instead of ten.

You prefer applesauce and don’t need it to fall asleep.

But after your nap you drink and drink.  Then you coo and laugh just like you did before.

There are still the times when I catch you in the morning, half asleep and you nurse like a newborn.

Then there will be the very last time that I breastfeed you.