I have a love-hate relationship with breastfeeding.
It is pretty intense.
I remember all of the feelings and their intensity from our first fling three years ago. And all of those feelings came rushing back as my son latched on for the first time.
It would be easy to focus on the hate part. Dwell on the things that drive me crazy. Like I did last time until it was nearly time to wean.
This time, I’m focusing on the love part.
Like the part where I am literally growing a human with just my body? Yeah, that is an amazing super power.
And how I can calm him by just holding him close. The smell of milk and mommy so permanently intertwined that the cradle of my arms alone can lull him to sleep.
Soft baby sighs as he latches on and begins to fill his belly.
The satisfied stretch – eyes closed, arms elongated, hands in the air. Victory.
Knowing that I see a side of him that nobody else sees. Nobody else sees his sweet little face from this angle. Nobody else sees him so snuggled and safe and satisfied.
I love the built in excuse on a busy day to sit, rest, snuggle.
I love that I can do it. I know there are women who want to but can’t. I am lucky. I can.
And though I hate my pump, and I would love a glass of wine or an extra cup of coffee, and I really just want to take a shower or leave the house regardless of when he last ate, and I really don’t love wearing shirts that provide easy access to my chest… I’m not taking this for granted.
Because someday, not too far from now, he’ll get his nutrition elsewhere. And not long after that he’ll find comfort in other places too. He’ll need me less. And the lessening will grow.
So for now, I’m his.
And I love it.