Dear Me and You, Mama Milk!

Dear Me and You,

Being an adult is challenging; like legit moments of what the actual fuck is: going on? am I doing? is wrong with the world? is wrong with people?

And then, I stop amidst the chaos and remember that not only am I an adult but that I’m also a parent– to three small children. An emotion bubbles up and I can’t quite find the word for it because it’s… a mess of so many emotions. I feel myself start to chuckle– a bit maniacally–because sometimes, it’s hard for me to really grasp the concept that I’m a woman of nearly 40 and I’m a mom, in charge of the well-being, the activities, the meals, the love, the growth, the guidance, and all the snacks for little humans that were… literally growing inside of me. These humans were once so small, so completely dependent on me, and now, as it goes, they are growing taller and stronger and less dependent on me.

That’s a win. Right?

Today my two older girls, six and four, happily retrieved the baby (and I’m painfully aware that calling her “the baby” is no longer accurate) from her crib. These older sisters know the routine, which starts with telling Alexa, “Stop the white noise,” continues with our good morning song, lifting her out of her crib (her sleeping place until she starts climbing out), removing her sleep diaper, grabbing her favorite (of the week) stuffie and special blanket, escorting her to my room to say good morning, and then escorting her back out to get cozy on the couch for a show (their favorite of the week).

That’s a win.

However, this morning, there was something different in the routine. The team was rifling around to get snacks and as children do, they decided to investigate the freezer. For what? I’m not sure. The baby, Daphne, a two-year old, discovered a Lansinoh breast-milk storage bag. Curious and clever, she asked her eldest sister, Tessa, “Milk?” Tessa replied, “It’s mom’s boob milk.”

I wasn’t prepared for the next interaction.

Daphne charges into my room, stuffie, blanket, and frozen breast-milk in hand, “Mama milk! Me? Mama milk! Me!” At my bedside, she looked so happy, so hopeful, and completely in awe that she was holding the very thing that I have told her no longer exists. I felt crushed; I felt guilty; I allowed myself to forget about the 14 months of breastfeeding because at that moment, my baby wanted something I couldn’t give. “Daphne, that milk is old, too old to drink. I’m sorry.”

A bit defiant, and perhaps, determined to problem-solve, she clamored up on me and coyly hovered her mouth centimeters from my nipple, “Mama milk!” And before I could say anything else, she pulled away, “No mama milk,” clutching the frozen bag again, “This mama milk.”

“No Daphne, that milk is old. I’m going to make jewelry out of it. A special necklace and ring, so that I can always remember how I gave you and your sisters milk from my body.” An illuminated expression donned her face, “Me jewelry too?” And just like that, she thought of a solution, a way to honor the relationship we once shared. And once again, I learn something else from my children. How to accept and be in the moment while honoring and accepting the past.

We made it through another day, me and you. Kudos.