I breastfed my children. It is a feeling… no… its an experience unlike anything else. Euphoric might be pushing it a bit too far, but its something like that. It’s euphoric-ish. I mean, you know, after your nipples stop bleeding and you no longer wince each time they latch on to your flesh with the strength of ten thousand commercial vacuum cleaners. Side note: How do they come here that strong anyway? Their tiny limbs are little more than al dente pasta, but their mouths? Strong like morning breath. 

Anyway, I was saying... Breastfeeding your little one is euphoric-ish. Time and time again I’ve said I wish everyone could experience it. Not just women, but men too. If I could I would put it in a bottle and give it away. The feeling that I am the provider of life for this living creature and we both know it. It’s a very fluid, symbiotic relationship. The giving and the taking, but it has nothing to do with power and control. It’s just about love. Pure love. So, what then? What are we talking about today?

I’m still nursing Baby Blake. Yes it’s probably not exactly accurate to continue to put baby in front of his name, but I did it and you will deal. In the same way that everyone needs to deal with the fact that I’m still nursing him. The looks I get when he starts to tug at my shirt or tries to settle down into my lap, assuming the position. So what he’s 2, has a full mouth of teeth and makes poop that rivals that of a grown up. He’s my baby.  He still wants “Milky”. I’m still giving it to him. Boom. Just like that.