Got Milk?

(Make sure to read the next two posts to see the rest of the family pictures.)

I have been absent from blogging while we packed and moved. We are successfully moved into Taylor's sister's house. I have four boxes left, and I'm leaving them for Taylor who has been absent for almost 48 hours, working for 24 of them. We fit well here. The kids are sharing a room, and surprisingly they like it. There are new hide and seek positions here, as well as a friend next door for Claire. This hasn't really happened before, and Kyle was very concerned today that I would just leave Claire with the neighbors.

We (obviously) cleaned out the fridge and freezer to make our move. I had hoped to take on that chore myself, but forgot about that hope. I was a little mortified to notice that my last bottle of breastmilk had made it from my own freezer and was now unfrozen and sitting in Whitney's fridge (sorry Rob, I know that must traumatize you to read that, if you read that). I had planned to sneakily stow it away. But there it sat in a baggy, separated and gross-looking. Kyle quit breastfeeding almost a year ago. I know for sure that milk of any sort doesn't last for a year (and really, I have no idea how old the bottle really was). I wasn't planning to use it. At this point I had no choice but to pour it down the drain, but it was a hard thing to do. As I stood there with it in my hand, contemplating it's future, I couldn't help but wonder why I had kept it in the first place.

That little bottle contained proof that I had an infant in my home. Letting go of it means that Kyle really isn't a baby anymore. He's practically two by all means!
I decided that it was my trophy---tactile evidence of nights and days spent suckling. I've read of the merits of breastfeeding dozens of times. I praise the act for the how it eats away at my fat cells while I eat away at cookies for a year. All of that nurturing brain cells and fat burning is well and good, but really, I choose to breastfeed because it makes me feel innately woman (and not because it increases my bra size substantially). I just like thinking that it's the way it's always been for women and their babies. It feels like a link to my past and a gift to my future. I like being pregnant for the same reason---it makes me feel there is an unbroken chain to the women who came before me.

Before we moved I had to tell Claire that our "home" is not walls and closets and counters; home is where our family is. I guess the same applies to me. The evidence of my "working breasts" (to quote Everybody Love Raymond) is not necessarily a half-full bottle in the freezer, it's in the thighs and chubby cheeks of my children.

And there will be more babies in good time. And more milk. I wonder how long I'll hold on to the last last one.