The Cover-Milker

Brynna was trying hard to chivvy me out of bed this morning so we could all have waffles together.

I, in the midst of enjoying my only weekend off for at least the next five weeks, was somewhat resistant.

B was not to be denied. "Get up, Mama, get up!

Then she started throwing my clothes on the bed (admittedly, they were close at hand, since I'd dropped them on the floor when getting into bed the night before).

"Here your pants, Mama!" she crowed, tossing a pair of running pants in the general vicinity of my face.

"And here your cover-milker!" she shouted, launching a bra onto the bed.

She was somewhat taken aback by the snorts of laughter that started eminating from under the covers.

I suppose, from Brynna's perspective, "cover-milker" describes a bra's function to a T. We've had a good long run of breastfeeding, the two of us. But I think we're almost done. She's no longer asking on any sort of schedule, and we've gone as long as a week in between sessions. (She tells me there's still milk there, though.) Mostly it's a quick drive-by, lasting about ten seconds—just long enough to reassure herself that she can. Every time she nurses, I think that it could be the last time. And one of these days, I'm going to be right.

Breastfeeding B has been such a cornerstone of our relationship that it makes me a little teary to think about not doing it anymore. It's something I've been able to do for her (and with her) despite working crazy hours as a medical student and a resident, and as she's become more mobile and busy it's become one of the few times that she sits still and lets me snuggle her. On the other hand, after carrying her around inside me for just shy of forty weeks, and then nursing for two and a half years, I think I'm ready to have my body to myself again. Though I suppose there's no harm in letting her refer to my bras as cover-milkers. It's a much nicer word!