I just checked in on my kids, who are sleeping soundly. I wonder what they are dreaming about. Yesterday, I noticed an eyelash in the corner of John's eye.
"John, can I get that eylash?"
I pulled it out and placed it between my forefinger and thumb.
"Make a wish."
"Mommy, I wish that I could fly."
What a wonderful wish. I fudged, as I often do, checking to see which finger would hold the eyelash after a solid pressing. Looks like the thumb.
"John, take a guess. Which finger will hold the eyelash?"
He pointed at my thumb, and I granted his wish.
I remember when I was little, my most amazing dreams were flying dreams. I would wake up certain that with little effort, I could take flight.
Now my most wonderful dreams are nursing dreams. Yes, nursing carried lots of angst. Pain, blocked ducts covered with cabbage leaves, razor sharp cuts that brought tears to the corner of my eyes. But when you get it right, as I often did, it was the most amazing experience in the universe. The contraction of myoepithelial cells, followed by letdown, was a rush unlike any man-made drug on the planet.
When I decided to quit nursing John at eight months, because I was almost dried up and desperately needed to study for my boards, I spent the afternoon at my mother's house. I couldn't hold back my tears, which normally don't come easily to me. I knew this was probably my last kid - ergo my last nursing experience. The grief overwhelmed me.
"John, where are you going to fly?"
"Mommy, I want to go with you. You are so beautiful. Will you fly with me?"
Forever and always.