engorged

early morning Beckam

I woke up at 5 a.m. because my breasts were engorged with milk.
Soon I will be done nursing Beckam.
He is 7 months old.
This is my body's last duty as mother.
I am not having any more babies.
I catch my breath as I write this, as if I've jumped into frigid water.
It is shocking to realize and I could cry.
Surely when I stop nursing, I will cry.

I hold so tightly to Beckam.
When he is in my arms I relish the softness and weight of his little body.
I have never had this instinct.
I don't want him to grow up.  He is 20 pounds of innocence.  My last dose.
After this first year, he will become responsible for his own life.
He will walk on his own legs and go where he chooses.
The separation between us will grow in tiny increments.
I know this because it has happened with Sophie now almost 10 years old and Pepper who is 3.

My kids are not "my" kids.

Pepper talking to herself

I do them the service of caring for them and teaching them.
I have the privilege of singing them to sleep and holding them when they scrape a knee in the same place for the 4th time.
In return I am given eyes that look into mine and see someone amazing.
I am never more colorful, alive or important as I am to them.
We are in love for a brief time and soon I will become a whole person to them, not just their mother.
They will see my human side and realize I made mistakes.
Mistakes which caused them harm, and I hope they can forgive me.

For now I choose to do this one thing:  to be their mother.
When I first graduated from college, my head was propelled into the future by hot aspirations.
Now that this intellectual momentum has slowed, I am amazed at what I may have missed had I followed it out of my immediate life.

Old ladies in the grocery store always say, "They grow up so fast."
When I am exhausted by this "privilege" I want to kick these ladies in the teeth Karate kid style.
But right now, I can feel it.  I can feel just how temporary this duty is.  And it doesn't feel like a duty at all.  Because when it's over, I will have to find something else to do, and I'm afraid I won't get to play anymore.  I'm afraid I will forget how it feels to be a kid, and see magic.  Because they remind me everyday, if I pay attention.

Yesterday I climbed a rope all the way to the top at Sophie's gymnastics studio.
Then raked the skin off my middle finger on the way down in a glorious burn.
I want to keep getting these kid-injuries.
I want to try things just to see if I can do it.  Because it looks fun.

It is a symbiosis we have, these kids and I.
I keep them alive by feeding, housing, clothing, insuring, shuttling, entertaining, and teaching them.

Sophie 

They keep me alive by asking me to tell them a story, sing a song, build a fort, or say a prayer at night.


My waters are never still.  There is always inflow and outflow and ripples reflecting light.

The first time I was pregnant, I referred to the baby as a parasite.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
In a parasitic relationship, one organism thrives by taking from, and killing the other one.
Now I see there is no imbalance between us.
I get just as much as I give.
And if I give more of my time, my imagination, my energy and my hope it is returned to me.
I find it in their tiny actions.


I find it when Sophie cuddles up to read Pepper a book, and uses a soft, sing-song voice.
I find it when Pepper hugs her Dad first thing in the morning with scruffy hair and holds on so tight.
I find it in Beckam's lit up face as I walk into a room, as if he is seeing me for the first time.
I find it when Pepper talks to her toys.
I find it when Sophie prays at night and I get to listen because she wants me right there holding her hand.

Pepper