Friday, February 1, 2013

Baby Toes

We're done weaning. We've been done for a couple of weeks, actually. I don't think it's a gross exaggeration to say that I'm devastated. He came off the breast so easily -- and my milk dried up so quickly -- that I feel like a jilted lover.

We need to end this relationship.

Two weeks later he's with another woman.

Wait... I changed my mind!

But it's too late.

This morning I held Henry in the nursing chair as he sucked down a full eight ounces of cow's milk. I caressed his little foot, acutely aware somehow that I am living my life, so to speak, as opposed to preparing for the next phase. You know: After high school is college, then a first job, followed by graduate school and a first "real" job, the one that prepares you to climb the ladder of your chosen career. Then finding the one (finally!), engagement and marriage, pregnancy and now... life.

Henry has his dad's feet: little rectangles, almost as wide as they are long. But his baby feet have an additional feature, that little roll of fat right on top of the arch, giving them the appearance of two edible tamales.

He drank peacefully as I ran my fingers up and down his arch. I put my finger underneath his toes near the ball of his foot, but he has lost the plantar grasp reflex that enabled our hairier forebears to cling to their mother, quite literally for dear life.

Ah, the inexorable, bittersweet march of time.

I had to ditch my terrible commenting system, but I didn't want to lose the comments, so here they are: