Submitted by Kristen Roderick
I wake up just after 4 am to the sound of my 9 month old baby stirring in his crib next to our bed. He rolls around a bit and begins singing his wake-up song from his slumber place.
My breasts respond first as I notice the pressure building, followed by a tingling sensation as the let down is triggered.
I get out of bed and lean over the crib. He sees me and smiles a two-tooth grin, raising his arms to be picked up and taken into our bed to be held and fed.
I lift him out, feeling the weight of his 22 pound body, place him on my lap, lift my shirt and pull him to my breast. As his little mouth latches my nipple, I feel the release of milk into his mouth. His face relaxes and he gently closes his eyes, placing his little pudgy hand on my chest, stroking my shirt to feel the textures – now a habitual part of his nursing routine.
His sucking is punctuated with little squeaks, grunts and moans, and as he drinks, my body relaxes deeper and deeper against the pillow behind me. I close my eyes and rest a bit, feeling into our dance, confident that he is now, finally, getting the milk he needs.
After months of struggle, I now know that I have enough in my body to nourish him – that my body is enough, that I am enough.
Baby’s body grows heavier in my arms as he continues taking short sips then longer, deep swallows. His little eyebrows rise in satisfaction as the sweetness of my milk fills his mouth and belly. Eventually his drinking slows, and I know he is finally asleep and full.
