My friend picks the topic. This week it was “pump”. no looking back, no re-dos. Here’s mine:
you run roughshod over my life. without you i have a painful boulder for a breast but with you i have to pass your test every time we meet. am i in love with my baby enough to fill your bottle? am i doing it right? does he get what he needs? why can’t i get much out to the mechanical wheeze suck of your rhythm? what do you want from me? at 2:am? at 5:am? marking bags, taking inventory of my love. it only lasts 5 days in the refrigerator, some months on ice. but when we take the labor of my love out to thaw, i am suspicious. does it still convey my sentiment? what i felt when i was up in the middle of the night gathering milk so that i might nurse sufyan as long as he wants? under threat of drying up, true, but also because i love my baby. here, i’ll prove it. 6 ounces before i went back to bed (missing his little nursing form and warmth and cuddle. missing the baby becoming a boy in the room down the hall). finally, i have to pump.