Evening

I walk up to my door, actively turning my mind away from my day, from stories about miscarriages and foster care nightmares and undone paperwork and nefarious committees. Through the front window, I see MOTH pick him up, set him on his feet so he can take two, three, four, now five steps toward me before collapsing on his knees. His face is full of joy and also a lot of “holy shit, I’m locomoting independently!” with raised eyebrows and nubbly teeth showing in his big drooly grin. I come in, collapsing on my own knees to collect him in my arms. I get the nap/eat/poop report from my comrade in arms, all the while unloading bags, putting away pumped milk, and reassuring my son that yes, I see him signing “milk” frenetically and that we’ll go lie down together soon. We wave bye to Daddy and go do a diaper check. He obliges me by playing with his toys and letting me clean him up, forgoing the recent mournful cries and alligator death rolls that have plagued our diaper changes of late. I scoop him up again and we go into the bedroom, where I tuck him under the quilt and lie next to him, undoing one side of my nursing tank before I spoon myself around him. He latches on eagerly, humming a bit, and we spend the next several minutes with me willing him to fall asleep and him closing his eyes to fool me, before pulling off and lifting his head up to look around. It’s dark in the room, but I can see every eyelash as he leans close to me with his lax, open mouth searching for my face to give me his version of a kiss. I whisper, “Yes, baby, kiss. Now naptime. Night-night,” and rearrange our bodies into our snuggle. He nurses for a few minutes, then holds up one hand to sign “milk” some more, pulling off to look at me intently. “Yes, baby, milk. Have some milk. Naptime.” His left hand is cupped under my breast, flexing as if to help pump the milk directly into his mouth. His right hand, no longer signing, is now tucked between my breasts as if searching for change between couch cushions. He wants to twist, to use his bare foot to explore the rods of his crib, so I gather him once again into a snuggly pile and will my breathing to slow down, to relax my body so that his can mimic mine. It works. After a few minutes, the sucking stops, and I marvel that I can no longer feel his mouth and wouldn’t know if he was latched on unless I was looking. I think back to year ago, when it felt pinchy and foreign and I couldn’t relax and was constantly hunched over my inadequate nursing pillow. And now, I am warm and comfy and could fall asleep myself if I didn’t have things to do, and I can’t even feel him. I can’t tell where my body ends and his begins. His breathing slows, his jaw relaxes, and the hands that were so fervently grasping fall slack. I disentangle myself and look down at him, grateful he’s sleeping, painfully aware that the clock starts now for everything I’d like to accomplish without a small human attached to me, and yet unwilling to walk away just yet. I’m trying to file this away, to savor these sense memories of his soft hair, his ridiculous robustness in a tiny flannel button-down and khakis, his hot little hands and the way he tilts his face up when he sleeps, creating a determined chin that is otherwise lost in baby cheeks and rolls. A man stopped us in the parking lot yesterday, saying, “You’re so lucky. I’d give anything to have those days back.” I made my standard joke about him probably getting eight straight hours of sleep these days, and he smiled gently and agreed, but the wistfulness was still there. As it is in me now, as I slide the crib rail up and close the door, knowing that one of these days will be the last time I do this, and that day will come sooner and faster than I can even imagine.