I’ve been having a hard time writing lately= my world is filled up with the day to day of my baby, filled with more joy and laughter and laundry (and less time to ruminate, to think and to create) than I’ve ever known. It’s hard to find my voice- anything I want to say has assuredly been said before, and better. But there are things I want to remember, little pieces of truth I wonder if maybe I might be able to say uniquely… then it’s time for bed before I can open the laptop, find the paper, or even really form a cogent sentence.
So I’m just going to write, now, in the few minutes I can find before I collapse into bed, and screw it- it probably has been said before, and better. But I’m not going to find my voice again without trying.
I love breast-feeding. I waited too long to give him a bottle, I guess, because he wont take it. The right time must have been somewhere, but I missed it (or more likely I ignored it because why change what works?). And my little nursling does not want solid food. He makes the most delectable little ‘yuck’ face when he tastes anything. Well, minus the ritz cracker I let him try once when I was eating one… naturally. He would like the only nutritionally void thing I’ve handed him. I really want to avoid that whole picky eater crap almost everyone else has to deal with, but… if he wants milk, by god I’ll let him drink milk. I like it, that he likes it. I read somewhere ‘making milk is my super power’ and, hell, that phrase is funny, and empowering. But it doesn’t quite ring true. It makes it seem more magical than natural. More mystic than mundane. And maybe it’s both- maybe there is a kind of magic at midnight when he rolls over and finds my boob in the darkness, cooing softly and saying ‘yum’ in the language of babies. Or maybe it’s something that can’t be mystic because it’s too important, too frequent. It’s just how it is, a moment in time repeated over and over until it isn’t.