I've been feeling kind of numb. I haven't left the house. Haven't been to the gym in over a week (remember, I was there every day, 6 days a week and I usually go nuts if I have to miss even one day). I haven't felt much like dealing with the kids. I haven't done any school work with them (although, in an attempt to shut the bigger ones up, I gave them some work sheets to do by themselves yesterday).
So, today, I am especially grateful to be a breastfeeding mom.
When I got The Boy this morning, he immediately signed, "Milk please." I sighed because I really didn't want to. Reluctantly, I sat down on the couch, turned on the t.v. and nursed the baby. I was initially ignoring him and just flipping through news channels (I don't like Larry King in the evening hours. Why the hell does Headline News think I want to see him and his outdated guests in the morning? Dude, your channel is called "Headline NEWS." News is right there in the title. Quit showing all these idiotic commentators and their ridiculous shows and just give me my freaking news).
Then, I happened to get a whiff of the top of the baby's head. Luckily, he had a bath last night, so instead of that day-old spaghetti smell, it was that sweet baby scent. I closed my eyes and breathed him in. I noticed it calmed me down and made me feel better.
I turned off the t.v. and continued to sit there and sniff my son. For some reason, he wanted to nurse for a while and he asked to switch sides a few times. Normally, I would have been annoyed, but today, I didn't mind at all.
While nursing him, I noticed his sisters were playing pretend with their stuffed animals. So I started asking questions and talking to them about their pretend ice cream party with the 4-year-old panda bear and the 19-year-old giraffe who is training to be an astronaut.
When The Boy was done, he got down off the couch, flashed me a big grin and walked away.
A little while later, I said the Sheheheyanu quietly to myself so as to thank G-d for giving me the gift of breastfeeding and for allowing me to recognize the quiet beauty and serenity in the moment, in the act, in the children, and in myself.