This last December, my brother snagged us tickets to Hamilton, and so RBH and I went on a mega-date and left Babygirl at home. I was nervous to be leaving Babygirl for 8+ hours, but there was also a boiling pot of emotion overflowing inside of me that would not simmer down until I saw Hamilton live. I had left her for that long before when I had to go back to work for awhile, but I had had access to a breast pump then. This trip downtown would be spent in a public restaurant and theater, and I didn't have my pump with me. I had already had breast infections, and I was not looking forward to the uncomfortable feeling I would have on the way home.
My brother, SIL Jennika, RBH, and I had an incredible night. We went out to dinner and didn't have to rush through eating our food to tend to our children. We walked hand in hand down the streets of the city and took in the energy and joy of the season. And we each tried to keep the thrill of our hearts inside our chests as the lights dimmed to start the show. At intermission, the lights came up and we each floated back down into our squeaky cushioned seats to talk about the spectacle we just witnessed.
We were talking over each other with too many hand gestures as we tried to express in so many superlatives how we were feeling. My eyes were having trouble focusing on each emotion-filled face, and I thought to myself, "this is the most incredible thing I've ever seen." As I reveled in this undiluted escape to a world where every person could express themselves in a perfect display of consonance and rhyme, I realized that half of my brain was constantly occupied. For the past 3 or 4 hours, despite having the most perfectly constructed distraction displayed in front of me, I had also been thinking about my daughter. I could feel the heaviness in my chest as her lifeline that I carried with me began to accumulate. The area surrounding my heart began to feel tight and uncomfortable and pull my thoughts away from my situation. I wished I could just run out and meet up with her at intermission so that each of us could get some relief.
I stood up quickly and announced that I had to have some sort of release if I was going to make it through the show. I turned a corner and almost smacked into the back of a woman whose head was repeated hundreds of times down the hall inching it's way towards the propped open bathroom door. There was no way I would make it back to my seat in time. I took a deep breath and headed back to my row of glowing companions and told myself to just ignore the discomfort and enjoy myself. I sat down next to my sister-in-law, Jennika, who was also breastfeeding her daughter and told her my plight. She mercifully comforted me, and we talked about how my girl needed more milk at that time than hers did. Hers had progressed a little farther in relying on other forms of sustenance, her need had changed, and so Jennika wasn't feeling the same constricting pressure that I felt.
That's really the thing that absolutely boggles my mind about breastfeeding. Those first few weeks, when you and your baby are getting acquainted, your body just produces whatever it feels like producing. It still thinks it is alone in this. But slowly as those weeks pass, and your hearts get used to beating separately but still next to each other and she figures out where her head fits most comfortably on your shoulder and the corners of her lips curl up the minute you have eye-contact and her fear of being a lone body exposed to this world starts to diminish, your body learns to start listening to her. Your body learns that its reason to pump life right now is not for you to thrive, but for her. Your body finally gets that this isn't about you.
And thats why all of a sudden she cries, and your milk drops. That's why even when your body is downstairs, you can feel her need upstairs--her soul a magnet so powerful that even when you go somewhere without her, you can feel each step lagging back a little as she pulls you back to where she is. That is why death, which never seemed scary before, all of a sudden keeps you up worrying at night that one day your body might have to leave her body to walk this world alone.
There is something divine, something celestial, about the fact that my body produces the sustenance my daughter requires to live in exact proportion to her need. There is something other-worldly about the fact that my body has learned to acclimate itself to her in a way that what I provide is tailored so personally to what she requires to grow, thrive, and feel comfort.
As I sat in the theater that night, my chest ached, and I groaned under the weight of this un-used nourishment and a scripture came to mind:
Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb?
yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee. - Isaiah 49:14-15
I thought about my sweet girl and how badly I wanted to feed her for both of our sakes. I thought about the fact that even though she was away, my body continued to produce exactly what she needed and how much of it she needed exactly when she would be needing it.
I thought about the pain I would feel as we traveled home, and the waste it would be to dump my extra milk down the sink when my body had worked so hard to make it just for her.
Even if I could have forgotten her, my physical body would not let me settle for too long being away from her. I would feel actual physical pain because of the length of time it had been since we communed together.
I could not forget her. My body could not forget her. She was a part of me, and my body existed for her.
When babygirl refuses to nurse, it isn't like my milk just goes away. She just decides not to drink it. But it will still be there and still keep producing whether she chooses to nurse or not. She isn't doing me any favors when she decides she can go without it. But it does mean she will lose some added strength and nourishment, and I will feel some pain.
The weight of this scripture came crashing down on me. The fact that my body was having to painfully acclimate to being away from my child's need humbled me in a way I hadn't anticipated.
I thought about the many times that I had been hungry, and my soul had been empty, and I chose not to turn to The Lord for sustenance. Times when I thought I was doing Him a favor by showing how strong I was on my own, not wanting to bother Him in asking for help, and I wondered at the physical and emotional toll that may have taken on Him.
I know that He chose His body to exist and suffer and produce for me. I know that He has the exact amount of love, comfort, strength, clarity, and wholeness that I need to sustain me. And He produces it and offers it exactly when I need it. The pain that He must feel when I refuse to commune with Him, when I say no thanks and He respects my decision and mourns over the wasted sustenance being poured down the drain, makes me feel small. It makes me feel silly and childish. It makes me feel shame for the unnecessary pain and estrangement it causes both of us.
I truly cannot believe that as much as I could never forget my nursing baby girl, I am in His thoughts even more. My needs are continually before His face.
Just as I plan my entire day around nap time and nursing, He plans His around me. He knows when I will need His undivided and undiluted aid. And when I refuse to receive what He is offering, He feels it. And He chooses to feel it because He loves me.
"Jesus took bread, and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, Take, eat; this is my body.
And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them saying,
Drink ye all of it;
This cup is the new testament of my blood,
which is shed for you."
(Matt 26:26-28 & Luke 22:20)
