They Can Be Both
heartbroken and open
Wilted cabbage rests in the place of my toddler’s curls. It cools my breasts and sucks ‘em dry before she gets a chance to consider wanting any. She still does a few times a day. Morning, bedtime, and bi-hourly through the night—her usual schedule. None of these times do I allow for indulgence in the comfort of mommy’s milk anymore.
For months in preparation for this goodbye, I told her stories of impermanence. Our worldly adventures to museums and grocery stores played an invaluable role in easing her into the idea of no longer having access to my body in the way that she has for years. On-the-fly metaphors keep this transition relevant in any environment. It’s still hard. Introducing boundaries is like putting a box of chocolates in a car with no antifreeze and hoping for clean seats. Summertime heat melts the roasted seeds into soft leather. Winter offers a clean break. It’s 7pm and 82 degrees. The clean breaks are coming, but aren’t here yet.
Four days following our Bye-Bye Boobie Ceremony, she holds onto hope that in asking, she’ll receive. The worst thing I could say is no. And I choose the worst repeatedly.
Hope is hard, especially after not having it for some time; although maybe even more so when you’re used to having it but must acknowledge the reality of disappointment. She knows no boundaries. As these invisible lines become more visible to her, I expect that my patience will continue to organize itself into graceful empathy for her fits of rage and sorrow. And for my own, too.
My breasts feel like open wounds. My heart matches their energy. Improvisation has been the closest thing to structure we’ve had for a while. They both need time to remember that complacency isn’t a requirement for routine, even though the monotony can feed the beast of comfortable stagnancy from time to time.
This seemingly unproductive period of my life has proven to be one of immense growth. Moving in silence her first few years has been simultaneously demanding and relieving. My commitment to self sacrifice has ironically created a gap between societal expectations of the human body to constantly perform and the deeper understanding of self and priorities that I have gained on the other side.
As I wean myself from the endorphins of breastfeeding, and her from the comfort and nourishment, I release the need to intellectualize all of my experiences. This compartmentalizing of identity and emotional landscapes has become a valuable skill in surviving these first two years postpartum, and I now recognize my deep need for pleasurable presence.
Endings can rattle. They can create a sense of chaos. A fear of the unknown—a feeling that many caregivers have become familiar with. And yet, each transition displays a dichotomous empty, but full feeling. Maybe I’ll never get used to not knowing what fills each truffle in my box of life. But each phase will continue to offer me something worth being excited about.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Abby xx