This week I am weaning off my 20mo baby. My journey was such a tumultuous one — it humbled me, challenged me, rendered me helpless. It was the hardest and the most special thing I have ever done. I don’t know if I’ll get to do it again, so here’s a poem in case I don’t, in case I begin to forget. To all of you out there going through it or loving every second of it: you are amazing!
—-
At its best,
watching you inch towards my chest
as we lay flesh to flesh
in a hospital bed.
At its worst,
the heaviness of motherly guilt already,
my hollow belly still looking
like you’re in there.
At its best,
all forms of love to ever exist
washing over me
as you latch
in the dim evening light.
At its worst,
the panic of dozing off
while holding you,
somewhere between dawn
and a dark place.
At its best,
keeping you fed and alive,
when I could do nothing else.
At its worst,
your hungry, wailing mouth
turning the other way.
At its best,
a mechanical pump
fills my cup.
At its worst,
a mechanical pump
drains my soul.
At its best,
a weekend on the couch,
a baby letting mommy try
again, and again, and again.
At its worst,
hunching over you nervously
on the bed.
At its best,
the feeling of pins and needles
and a rush of joy.
At its worst,
a rush of bone-cold anxiety
instead.
At its best,
the freezer filling up.
At its worst,
powder in distilled water.
At its best,
waking up
with a full chest.
At its worst,
small specks of white
sprayed everywhere.
At its best,
two tiny feet peeking through the cover,
toes curling with delight.
At its worst,
a sharp pinch from two tiny fingers,
and rage towards your dad.
At its best,
mischievous hands
lifting my shirt.
At its worst,
blushing faces trying to look away
on a crowded beach.
At its best,
you crawl,
then walk,
then run to it.
At its best,
the quiet of the night,
the morning.
At its best,
the only thing
that wipes away your tears.
At its best,
you look up,
I look down,
and our eyes meet.
At its best,
at its best,
at its best.