Every night for over 8 months I’ve nursed Meera to sleep. Sitting in the rocking chair in her room at the end of the day we’ve both settled in to peaceful silence as she drifts off, skin to skin, nuzzled close. Then I’ve carefully carried her to her crib and laid her down in the glow of her nightlight. Last night, for the first time, I gave her a bottle instead. It has been a few weeks coming. I’ve known I don’t have enough for her. And she’s been waking up earlier and more frequently because she’s hungry. I’ve held out on it, but for her sake I just couldn’t any longer. And so, sitting in the rocking chair I fed her an 8 ounce bottle. She happily and eagerly drank every drop of it, confirming what I already knew: it was time. I felt such relief to know that she was getting enough; that her tummy was full of warmth. Still, though, the sense of loss was deep. Sitting there in the half-darkness of her dimly lit room, with her snuggled in as close as I could get her, I watched her drink that bottle through blurry eyes. Tears ran slowly down my cheeks in two small streams. It is the ending of something real. I am grateful for how seamless it has been – this evolution from breast to bottle – but still, I mourn the loss of what I know is ending. I remember sitting in that same rocking chair, in that same dimness, watching my baby drink from me. For months that is all she had and I would marvel in the fact that every single molecule of her rapidly growing self had originated with me. I was full of awe at it. As Braydon started giving her bottles I’d sometimes peak through her door to see it in the middle of the night: I wanted to know what it looked like for her to drink from something other than me. I cried once or twice, standing there alone, watching her with him – pure and simple tears of joy at the beauty of it. I felt no loss then. But it is different now, now that she’s moving on to more and more bottles and less and less nursing. It isn’t that I’m not ready; I am ready. And I am fully confident that Meera’s ready. It is just that so much is changing so fast. And with change there is always loss. This tiny baby is moving into a new realm… a realm that I am only part of. It is beautiful and sad all at once. I am not the first mother to feel these profound feelings, to think these thoughts, to cry in the dimly lit baby’s room. But when it is you and your baby, you do feel that nobody else in the entire world could possibly feel it as much as you. Meera didn’t notice me crying. She was deeply, dizzily content to have that bottle. Surly it was a relief to her to finally be getting enough before bed. She slowly closed her eyes as the warm rich liquid filled her up. Then I carefully carried her to her crib and laid her down in the glow of her nightlight. It was the same as every other night. Except it was so different.
