I read a blog on Tumble Dry today and for a few moments, I was taken back to new motherhood in a way I can only describe as physical.
Amanda wrote about the impending first birthday of her third (and last)baby. She described her thoughts as she nursed her little Finley; the delicious feel of the baby’s skin against her own, the sparkly eyes growing drowsy, the little circles she felt Finley tracing on her skin up under her shirt.
And suddenly I was there, holding my own baby baby and feeling that enormous magnitude of love and connectedness. I felt her warm belly pressed against my own, watched her eyes turn from sparkly to sleepy milk drunk, felt the fat little hand tracing a design on my side.
There is no mistaking the tingly, pins and needles feeling. And while I knew there was no milk to let down, my body tried.
It’s happened a few times in the ten or so years since I last nursed my own youngest child. Usually it was in a store, while some new mom let her newborn cry as she searched for the right hair conditioner or something. Drawn to those wails, those plaintive cries I found myself longing to pick up the stranger baby, to breathe against his tiny head and let him know he wasn’t alone. The milk came then.
But it’s been a while since that happened. And though nursing my children is one of those things I will can never do again, and will forever miss, I haven’t thought about it for quite a while. With working full time and looking for a child’s missing glasses and having an almost teenage daughter and teaching a 15 year old how to drive, those kinds of tender moments seem to come with so much less frequency.