I loved how a few minutes of nursing could turn my bawling babe into a sleeping cupid, her lips shining in a happy-as-a-drunken-sailor pucker. I loved the otherworldly warmth of it all, the exquisite closeness, the feeling that I was the unquestioned centre of Juliet's universe.
And, as I trudged and sighed my way through a mild postpartum depression, nursing Juliet saved me. Breast milk is perfect. Juliet loved it, and me. I knew that. And it made me strong.
Rock on, Mother Nature.
I had planned to nurse Juliet for six months, maybe a year, but it turned into two and a half unforgettable years. And as my outspoken fireball plans her fifth birthday party and learns to tap dance, I am nursing her sister, Sydney Rose, through the teething, tumbles and tantrums of toddlerhood.
I know. Some people think it's weird to breast-feed a child who can say a hundred words, go potty and fire fistfuls of spaghetti at the kitchen floor, but that doesn’t bother me anymore. My daughters and I do what works best for us. And when Sydney Rose gives me a gap-toothed smile and says "Mama, Mama-milk is yummy," nothing else matters.
Now, after more than 4,000 hours of stellar service to my family, my boobs are getting ready to close up shop. As that time approaches, I treasure this magical milk as if it were the last, sweet drops of my youth. When Sydney Rose nurses, I savour the silence, and her slumber, and the warmth of her little hand against my arm.
Heaven.
So, my boobs can retire happy, and revel in the red lace. They are fulfilled, knowing they've done a good job helping two spectacular girls begin their lives.
No. A perfect job.
Jennifer Power Scott, of Saint John, N.B., is a writer, jazz singer and self-appointed poster girl for lactational bliss.
Page 2 of 2
Read more:
• Breastfeeding reduces the risk of gluten intolerance
• Problems with breastfeeding
• 7 surprising things about breastfeeding
