An Ode To Breastfeeding

Today I was looking down at Esme while she nursed to sleep, nestled up against me with her chubby fist next to her mouth. I’m less than one month away from making it out to a year. For the first and last time. Never managed to make it out this far with the others.

I started thinking back on it all. I remember the sinking feeling I had after Ellie was born when I realized I could never leave her or a pump for more than three hours without serious discomfort. No one had told me about that. I remember how painful nursing through mastitis was, and the gymnastics of all the crazy holds so she could vary her latching position to prevent clogged ducts. I remember walking across the hospital to use a hospital-grade pump; eventually even that couldn’t contend with the work hours and stress and I gave it up by around four months.

Eric was memorable: scared of running out of milk, I pumped so much extra milk before going back to work that we couldn’t fit any more in our freezer. Then after I went back at three months, he refused to take the bottle, going on hunger strikes for days. My dad drove him in to the office every three hours and I’d run out to nurse him in the car. Pretty sure he screamed his lungs out the whole way there and back. I think we made it to about six months that way.

Elijah made it to about eight or ten months nursing: around then, he just lost interest. Started biting, and that was the end.

So this is something special Esme and I have going here. She’s just about the most compliant nurser I’ve ever had: always willing to nurse if I ask her to, which makes timing leaving for work much easier. Willing to patiently suck for a long time for a letdown, which helps with production. I’ve also been home most for her, which probably makes a difference.

And watching her, it’s easy to remember all the things I really love about nursing. The secret smiles they give with the nipple still in their mouth. The way their hands wave around like little birds, or reach up to rub my shirt or twirl a strand of my hair. The drunk little happy grins afterwards, the burps. It really is some kind of connection, some kind of miracle. I’ll be happy having more independence, but I think part of me will be sad too when it ends for good.