Eatpooplove’s Weblog



Got milk? Um, yes. I do.

On Tuesday morning I departed our house and headed off for my first business trip since giving birth to my son. I was, to put it mildly, a nervous wreck.  I was giving instructions left and right about what I wanted at my memorial service-I have the readings and music and location selected (just in case, I kept saying, morbidly). Prior to having a baby, I could have flown myself to Seattle and back in a radio flyer with one crooked wheel and not broken a sweat. Flying has never freaked me out. But on Tuesday as I sat in my seat waiting for take off, I found myself praying and talking to my son. Things just change when you are a mother. You don’t leave your house only accountable to yourself or your job. You leave your house and behind you there is a whole life, an entire human individual who counts on you and you better make damn sure you are coming back. And soon. For your sake as much as his. If you are me, you better make damn sure you are coming back with some breastmilk because my kid knows how to eat (he gets this from his father-the human garbage disposal). Let’s just say traveling with breastmilk is an interesting experience. You get to tell total strangers that you are, in fact, carrying breastmilk in your bag. You get to take it out of your bag and put it in a bin and the people behind you are looking away, probably thinking, oh how HIGHLY PERSONAL. And let’s just be frank, the TSA folks are not known for their ability to make a new mom, let alone one who is nursing, comfortable. But, I made it. And I’m in one piece and, more importantly, so is Boozo. The Beast? He’s in one piece, too, and he’s a better father having spent a few days on his own. He perfectly orchestrated Boozo’s routine each evening and morning and they seem to have formed a tighter bond. When I arrived home, bleary eyed from the red eye, I found Boozo in The Beast’s arms having just woken up. He was as snuggly as he always is in the morning. He reached for me, held my face in his hands and buried his perfect little round baby face in my neck. It was as if he was saying, Welcome back, Mama.Maybe one day I will laugh with him about how much of an effort I made to pump and carry breastmilk with me across the country both ways. Maybe I won’t. I can’t decide. Will it be one of those admissions that seems funny to me but makes him feel guilty? Will it be right to tell him about the tiny sacrifices and extra efforts I now go to because I want to do right by him? I sort of think I’ll keep it to myself.

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