Today's mail brought with it some of the Christmas presents my husband had ordered for me. Its important to us that the kids participate in the planning and buying and wrapping for others, so the holiday is not just about them getting gifts, so he called Elizabeth into our bedroom to look at the presents...I believe, one of which is "from her".
So as they were coming out of the bedroom, I heard my husband tell her, "Remember Elizabeth, this is a secret. Don't tell Mommy." To which Elizabeth replied, "I won't Daddy...are they all books?"
And then she came out and whispered to me, "Mommy, don't tell anyone your secret!"
Monday, December 14, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Tonight I Sobbed
I just finished nursing Charlotte for what could very well be the last time. I might get into the details of all that in another post, but for right now, I just want to remember. My face is still wet with tears, and my heart aches in a way that I haven't felt in a long time. And since this is likely my last baby, and my last chance to nurse, right now, I just want to write it all down so I can remember.
I want to remember the way she scrunched up her nose and eyes and started fussing for my breast as soon as she sat on my lap. And the way she'd flap her arms impatiently while she waited for me to get ready.
I want to remember the way it felt to have one of her tiny hands on my ribcage and the other on top of my breast as she filled up. And the way she'd sometimes pat me while she nursed.
I want to remember the smell of her sweet, soft hair on my nose and mouth as I kissed her head when she'd sit up and nurse, her whole body curled up in the small space of my torso.
I want to always feel the weight of her body, resting limply in my arms and on my tummy.
I want to remember the way she'd suck and suck until she'd relax enough to *just* fall asleep, and then as the breast would fall out of her limp mouth, she'd frantically latch on again and start sucking...and how she'd do this over and over again, never wanting it to be over.
I get that. I get the feeling that something you love so much, that you find so comforting is being ripped from you. I get the feeling of wanting it to last forever. I get it, dear Charlotte. I'm right there with you tonight.
So tonight I sobbed while you nursed. I tried to explain to you that I love you and I've done my very best and I'm so sorry that its come to this. I tried to explain that I want you to be healthy, and so as much as this hurts me, this is what we have to do. I tried to explain that, tomorrow, when you taste that formula for the first time, its not because I've abandoned you but because I'm doing everything I can to nourish you. I tried to explain, and your big blue eyes locked with mine forever and told me that maybe you understand more than I know.
And that's it. Maybe we'll have another chance to do this again in a few weeks. Maybe not. And I wish I could say that I have a peace about that, that I'm fine with whatever happens. But I'm not there yet. I'm thankful for the nursing time we've had so far, and I'm thankful for modern science that can try to overcome some of nature's problems. But there's still a lot of grieving to be done. I'm angry (with whom? God?) that it was ripped away from us earlier than either of us was ready for. I'm scared about what the future holds for your health. I'm mourning the passing of this era in my own life (am I really old enough to be done nursing my children?)
So many things whirling around in my head and heart. All I know for sure is that I love you desperately. Desperately.
I want to remember the way she scrunched up her nose and eyes and started fussing for my breast as soon as she sat on my lap. And the way she'd flap her arms impatiently while she waited for me to get ready.
I want to remember the way it felt to have one of her tiny hands on my ribcage and the other on top of my breast as she filled up. And the way she'd sometimes pat me while she nursed.
I want to remember the smell of her sweet, soft hair on my nose and mouth as I kissed her head when she'd sit up and nurse, her whole body curled up in the small space of my torso.
I want to always feel the weight of her body, resting limply in my arms and on my tummy.
I want to remember the way she'd suck and suck until she'd relax enough to *just* fall asleep, and then as the breast would fall out of her limp mouth, she'd frantically latch on again and start sucking...and how she'd do this over and over again, never wanting it to be over.
I get that. I get the feeling that something you love so much, that you find so comforting is being ripped from you. I get the feeling of wanting it to last forever. I get it, dear Charlotte. I'm right there with you tonight.
So tonight I sobbed while you nursed. I tried to explain to you that I love you and I've done my very best and I'm so sorry that its come to this. I tried to explain that I want you to be healthy, and so as much as this hurts me, this is what we have to do. I tried to explain that, tomorrow, when you taste that formula for the first time, its not because I've abandoned you but because I'm doing everything I can to nourish you. I tried to explain, and your big blue eyes locked with mine forever and told me that maybe you understand more than I know.
And that's it. Maybe we'll have another chance to do this again in a few weeks. Maybe not. And I wish I could say that I have a peace about that, that I'm fine with whatever happens. But I'm not there yet. I'm thankful for the nursing time we've had so far, and I'm thankful for modern science that can try to overcome some of nature's problems. But there's still a lot of grieving to be done. I'm angry (with whom? God?) that it was ripped away from us earlier than either of us was ready for. I'm scared about what the future holds for your health. I'm mourning the passing of this era in my own life (am I really old enough to be done nursing my children?)
So many things whirling around in my head and heart. All I know for sure is that I love you desperately. Desperately.
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