Blood and Milk

Blood and Milk

I dreamed of Oxford…

(spires, a thousand spires, endless lectures, musty halls

a solitary self in a Bodleian expanse

A good life, my dear Wormood. An orderly life.)

then awakened to laundry

and things to be wiped

(countertops, noses, bottoms)

How did this happen? And when, exactly?

Time flows, it flows, it flows

and there are choices to be made:

left or right?

paper or plastic?

blood or milk?

There’s freedom in the bleeding;

bondage in the milk – do not be deceived.

Ah, but it’s an empty freedom; a holy bondage,

A sweet and holy bondage.

Five times I chose the chains, those tender chains,

(though once will bind you just as well!)

and checked the crimson flow.

Suckled while dreaming of Trinity Term

but awakened, always awakened, to the laundry

and to that small and cherished captor at my breast.

I read this poem when I was 7 months pregnant with the boys.

I loved it then and I loved it as I began nursing them. But I understood it keenly these last two months as I wondered over the question. Blood or milk?

Sometimes it’s an easy choice. The choice is made for you. Circumstances are without your control.

Other times, it is your choice. And checking the crimson flow is an alluring perk. But freedom has it’s draw too. We have to choose.

As I’ve said before, nursing Sami and Ali together was a challenge – I lasted a little over six months – and that was a super-human effort. I hoped things would be different with the boys.

And they were.

We went from here.

To here.

We lasted 11 and a half months – sharing our last intimate moment as a threesome on Saturday. I admit, I was sad. Spencer snuggled onto my shoulder when we were done, draped his arms around my neck and we held onto each other, cheek to cheek for maybe five minutes. Gordon got squirmy so I set him down on the floor to play. But Spencer stayed and stayed. He was probably still lethargic from his stomach flu bout – not sporting his regular robust demeanor – but I savored every minute of his affection.

These are my last babies. My last chance to cradle that soft head against my body. The last time I will be a source of physical sustenance. It’s remarkable really – that women can do this – feed their own in one sovereign circle of need.

Part of me now, has done its job, lived out its purpose, been used up. The part that carries, grows, births and nourishes. The thought of it makes me contemplate mortality and how quickly it goes. How fleeting our one chance to live big the magnificence of our bodies.

I’m slightly mournful. My baby season is over.

It was fast and furious, exhausting and luminous, beautiful and brutal – all mingled together.

And now it’s done.

But like Sharlee, I would choose that sweet and holy bondage again, and again. I treasured those tender chains. And each cherished captor at my breast.