Time is a Thief
Time is a thief, they say.
Last week I packed up the burp cloths—threadbare pieces of fabric that have been puked on no less than 800 times. Was it really only eight months ago that I placed her on a beach towel after every nursing session, knowing what was to come?
It didn’t matter. She’d barf on the beach towel and then spit up all over me. If I had a dollar for every time regurgitated milk rolled off the burp cloth and onto me, my shirt, my skin, down my bra, I’d be a rich woman. Maybe I could take that money and head to Shark Tank with one of my best ideas: a burp cloth that is also a poncho.
I remember thinking—once a day, at least—I cannot wait for this phase to end.
I cannot wait to not be covered in spit-up. I cannot wait to wear cute clothes. I cannot wait to stop doing this much laundry. I cannot wait for our sheets to not smell like milk.
And here we are.
On the other side.
Only nursing twice a day.
My milk is drying up. I can feel it. I am still putting lactation potion into my orange juice and polishing off the last of the cookies filled with brewer’s yeast, desperate to hold on—just a few more days, a few more weeks. I swapped my second cup of coffee for Mother’s Milk tea yesterday. Please. Just a little longer.
I recently went away overnight, a New Years tradition of sorts. I hardly pumped anything the whole time I was gone. When I came home and unpacked my bag, I realized that was probably the last time I’ll ever use a breast pump.
I’ve had that machine since 2012.
Can you believe I’m mourning this? What I wouldn’t give to be puked on one last time. What I wouldn’t give to sit one last time while a torture device milks me like a cow. What I wouldn’t give to hold that version of her one last time—tiny, six pounds, smelling of milk and grapefruit soap and innocence.
Time is a thief, they say.
They were right.
All photos, a mix of digital + film, by Tara Whitney.
