The End of an Era

Most, if not all, mornings since John Patrick was born, Jude has gotten him up at 7 a.m., changed his diaper, and brought him into our bedroom. There, she climbed into our bed and breastfed him. Typically, I wouldn't hear her get up, but I would stir, then wake, to the sound of her talking quietly to him as she fed him. I'd role over toward her, open my eyes, and she would say to him, "look, there's your daddy," or "say good morning, daddy."

Earlier this week, I think it was Wednesday morning, I woke up about 7:30 a.m. or so, rolled over and was surprised to see that Jude's side of the bed was empty. I rubbed my eyes, got out of bed and walked into the upstairs hallway. I looked into the nursery (a.k.a. the men's lounge) and saw Jude feeding John Patrick from a bottle. I knew she had stopped pumping or, at least, wasn't pumping as much breastmilk, but she had continued breastfeeding him in the mornings. "Are we done with breastfeeding?" I asked. "Yes," she said, "there's not enough breast milk."

I started downstairs, then came back upstairs, opened the the screen door to the nursery, and stepped inside. I thanked Jude for sacrificing so much to breastfeed John Patrick for seven months. Then, I went downstairs to take a shower.

It amazes me, when I think about it, to consider all of the sacrifices Jude (and all mothers, really) has made for our son. Really, it only began with her actually becoming pregnant and carrying him to term. She pricked her fingers at least four times a day to check her blood sugar, after she was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. She underwent major surgery to give birth to John Patrick. She stayed home from work and cared for him, all day every day, for three months after he was born. She breastfed him several times a day for seven months. She pumped breast milk, at home and at work, for seven months. Even now, as I tell people all the time, she "does most of the heavy lifting" when it comes to caring for him, although I help care for him, too. It's impossible for me to articulate how much I appreciate her for all that she has done and continues to do, every day, for our son.

I digress, because what I really want to write about is how nostalgic, even sad, it makes me to realize that Jude won't be breastfeeding John Patrick anymore. For one thing, it's another sign he's getting older. Now, he's eating rice cereal, lots of baby food and even mashed up bananas. Also, though, and what I'm thinking about tonight, is how the moments when she breastfed him were so intimate, so special and such a privilege to watch.

Thinking about it one day and wondering why it meant so much to me, I decided that Jude's breastfeeding John Patrick was comparable to one of those rare winter mornings, when I get up early and see that it's snowed a couple of inches overnight. It's so peaceful and beautiful to go for a walk, before anyone has walked on the sidewalk or many cars have driven on the streets. On those early mornings, part of the beauty lies in the fact that I know, soon enough, the sun will come out, the temperature will rise and the snow will be gone by early afternoon. So many of the most beautiful things in life are fleeting, often mere moments, that you know aren't likely to pass your way again. They slip by and they're gone before you know it.