This morning, I nursed my son to sleep for his morning nap. He lay in my arms with one hand around my chest, the other hooked into my lower lip, nursing until his eyes rolled up in his head. Every now and again, fighting sleep, he’d shoot his lids open and stare into my eyes. I love being right there, so close to him, watching him get drunk from milk as he drifts to sleep.
He’s nine months old now, and just starting to figure out some communication tricks. Other people have witnessed him sign for milk, so I know I’m not just a proud, exaggerating mama. I love that he knows when he wants to nurse and knows how to tell me this. I love when he crawls across the room, pausing to squeeze his little fist.
Sometimes, when he’s nursing, he farts in my hand. It’s like he’s so relaxed, he just lets everything go, knowing I’m there to take care of all of it, whatever it might be.
Every, single time I look at his chunky thigh rolls, I feel so proud and empowered that first I grew him from two cells and then I continued to nurture him externally until this very day–that my body has created and sustained his body. Nothing has ever felt so wonderful.
Do I wish he’s leep longer than two hours in a row at night time? Yes. Emphatically yes. But gosh! The rewards of breastfeeding are so amazing. You didn’t hear me say this, but it might be worth the prolonged baggy eyes.
I nursed my older son for 27 months, and even as he began to talk and independently move around the world, I loved being his home base. Every morning, he ran into my room from his big-boy bed, stood next to my face, and asked, “Can I have some nulk?” It was the most lovely way to start my day, even when the question came before 5am.
Nursing makes me feel so close to my babies. I just love to cuddle them and smell them and stare at them while I’m simultaneously feeding them. I hope I get to keep breastfeeding for a few more years!