Thursday, August 03, 2006
I wrote this a couple of months ago for my support group's annual luncheon, which was today. Little Big Man pulled a plastic tablecloth and vase of flowers off a table. ("It's OK," one of the nurses said. "Nothing here is breakable." Yeah, just filled with water.) Dedicated sister came with me and gamely sat around in a hot room with two babies just so she could hear me read my essay. Thanks, sis! And yes, it is sappy and emotional.
BTW, I now have an RSS feed for this thing. Whatever that is.
My son is 16 months old and I'm still breastfeeding. Just when I think we might be winding down, he toddles into the bedroom as I'm rolling out of bed and makes the little milking sign with his fist. Then he stands there expectantly, waiting for me to haul him up next to me, all 30 pounds of him. Or he strides up to the rocking chair where we nurse and pounds on it. He's not very subtle -- but breastfeeding isn't subtle. There's an avalanche of health and emotional benefits, and they've helped to make him healthier, smarter and just more amazing than other kids, and me to stay sane and connected to him, even while working full time at night.
When I returned to work at a daily newspaper after my son was four months old, I strategized about how I was going to keep him in milk. I pumped for weeks before I went back, displacing frozen pizzas and TV dinners with plastic containers. Before my return, I lobbied for a private place to pump, and the company set up a lactation room.
Under deadline pressure each night, I would leave my desk, trot to the other end of the building, ask a security guard to let me in to the room and pump away. (Now, when I run into those security guards, our conversations start and end with: "How are you?" "Fine." There's just not a lot of chatting you can do about lactation.) Hardly anyone takes their requisite half-hour break at my job -- but I took it, every night. I went on vacation in California for three days without my son -- and pumped four or five times a day. I froze it all, then packed it in an insulated bag and flew it all home with me.
Every night when I was at work, my husband or our caregiver would take a thawed bottle of milk from the fridge and rock my son to sleep with it. Although we were miles apart, it was a link between me and him. It was something I could give him, even though I wasn't there in person.
I'm not pumping now, and solid foods make up the bulk of my son's diet, but neither he nor I need or want to give up breastfeeding. My nursing bras are tattered -- bu they're battle flags that are still flying. His teeth have introduced a new dimension, but he's as gentle with me (mostly) as I am with him. And still, I love to watch him nurse, studying his hair and face and hands, watching him drift off in my arms. He still reaches up to lay an arm between my breasts, just as he did when he was a baby. I love knowing that I'm his mother and that to him, I am home. My lap is where he feels safest and most loved. Though there's not a lot of milk for him now, he can still keep drinking -- for as long as he needs to.
BTW, I now have an RSS feed for this thing. Whatever that is.
My son is 16 months old and I'm still breastfeeding. Just when I think we might be winding down, he toddles into the bedroom as I'm rolling out of bed and makes the little milking sign with his fist. Then he stands there expectantly, waiting for me to haul him up next to me, all 30 pounds of him. Or he strides up to the rocking chair where we nurse and pounds on it. He's not very subtle -- but breastfeeding isn't subtle. There's an avalanche of health and emotional benefits, and they've helped to make him healthier, smarter and just more amazing than other kids, and me to stay sane and connected to him, even while working full time at night.
When I returned to work at a daily newspaper after my son was four months old, I strategized about how I was going to keep him in milk. I pumped for weeks before I went back, displacing frozen pizzas and TV dinners with plastic containers. Before my return, I lobbied for a private place to pump, and the company set up a lactation room.
Under deadline pressure each night, I would leave my desk, trot to the other end of the building, ask a security guard to let me in to the room and pump away. (Now, when I run into those security guards, our conversations start and end with: "How are you?" "Fine." There's just not a lot of chatting you can do about lactation.) Hardly anyone takes their requisite half-hour break at my job -- but I took it, every night. I went on vacation in California for three days without my son -- and pumped four or five times a day. I froze it all, then packed it in an insulated bag and flew it all home with me.
Every night when I was at work, my husband or our caregiver would take a thawed bottle of milk from the fridge and rock my son to sleep with it. Although we were miles apart, it was a link between me and him. It was something I could give him, even though I wasn't there in person.
I'm not pumping now, and solid foods make up the bulk of my son's diet, but neither he nor I need or want to give up breastfeeding. My nursing bras are tattered -- bu they're battle flags that are still flying. His teeth have introduced a new dimension, but he's as gentle with me (mostly) as I am with him. And still, I love to watch him nurse, studying his hair and face and hands, watching him drift off in my arms. He still reaches up to lay an arm between my breasts, just as he did when he was a baby. I love knowing that I'm his mother and that to him, I am home. My lap is where he feels safest and most loved. Though there's not a lot of milk for him now, he can still keep drinking -- for as long as he needs to.
