By Keren Toynton
They tried to warn me about you.
They said I was spoiling you each time I came when you called, that if I left you then you would learn.
Learn to sleep.
Learn not to need.
They said you couldn’t be hungry, as you had just eaten, and scoffed at me as I pulled you into my breast, not knowing exactly what you needed, but knowing that this comfort may be just enough.
They said I was making a rod for my back by being responsive. He will become needy they said. I thought this was funny as I’d have appreciated the support of this rod when carrying your weight, whilst rocking you gently to sleep.
They said you must sleep in your cot, that you must never fall asleep on me or, heaven forbid, whilst nursing.
Put him down awake they said.
I had woken you up and unsuccessfully tried to transfer you over a million times, I am sure.
But they are not here in those late hours of the evening, when it appears even the moon has deserted us.
They do not come when you call out for help in the early mornings, before even the dawn has awoken.
