It happens: gulp, gulp, gulp – he has to pull off, take a break, because you are the proverbial milk factory.
Now that my baby is three years old, he is no longer in danger of drowning, to say the least. Now, I am rarely sure anything is “going on” when he has his nummies; now, I savour every last one of our cuddles, because he’ll announce “all done” at any second; now, he is falling asleep on me less and less often (how will I know when it’s the last time I feel his body twitch and go perfectly still, his breath a soft melody against me); now, I know he will not be mine, in the same way, ever again – and now, being engorged is a welcome feeling.
Now, it reminds me sweetly of when he was small. Of course, it is never too painful now, just a fleeting pang-iness when I have missed bedtime and have a little too much to go around. I don’t bother doing anything about it, except maybe try to linger a bit longer the next time, if he’ll stick around – he has a busy life now and not much time for cuddling.
With a tiny baby, engorgement was a panic thing – because of supply and demand, every time it happened, I was sure there would be less milk next time. Yet we’ve survived; he seems to have gotten more than his share.
Now, it just reminds me that we are closer to The End than I might like.