We are programmed to receive

Such a lovely place...

The are lots of pages dedicated to milestone events in the baby book I got in order to track the baby's existence. The date of the first tooth's arrival, for example. First solids (and immediate faves), first words, first steps. I have not opened that book in several months. Perhaps we'll use it if there is ever a second baby. 

It makes me wonder if there are mother milestone books; surely there must be? Who wouldn't want to document the rich tapestry of the first year of parenthood? The giddy triumphs, the abject failures, the uncertainty, the paranoia and anxiety, the fear, the confusion, the sleeplessness, the forever-worry, the staring into the dark, thinking, thinking, thinking.  Anyway, I completed a milestone recently — I went on an overnight trip for the first time since I had a baby. 

First of all, what the hell. It is a curious thing to gain more understanding of your mother - look, I still feel what I know I feel but I... I understand more. I do. "Wait till it's your turn" is objectively a shitty thing to hear but sometimes (and only sometimes!) they're right. It's like a portal opened, a Kaufmanesque tiny door stuck between floors, and oh, there it was, my mother's brain behind it. And I saw the pathways in 1s and 0s, and I understood. It is difficult to mother a child, and to leave that child, even when it is the correct and normal thing to do. 

And about that! Did I have grand hopes for bedtime that night away from my child? Of course I did. I anticipated a bed not made by me. I imagined a plush robe, I imagined watching premium cable channels and eating food in bed (without considering the salt content, and then tearing off a bite-sized amount for a little child to stuff into his mouth), and uninterrupted, dreamless sleep. I got the robe. 

But the TV required my Netflix log in (what is UP with modern hotels and the lack of amenities?!) and it didn’t even have MAX or any other premium channels as an option, and I was so tired and hungry after work that I scarfed some roast chicken in the hotel restaurant before I even checked in and then ate Haribo frogs by the handful in bed. 

And then! I was still up at the crack of dawn despite the absence of baby, and well, look away if you're not keen on reading what a breastfeeding mother does but boy, oh boy did I make a ton of milk. I pumped all night, lads. I pumped before bedtime. I pumped at bedtime. I pumped in the middle of the night. I pumped first thing in the morning. I gave it the old college try one more time before heading to the airport. It was like my body was staging a protest - no justice, no peace! - at the new condition of being this far away from the second human whose life it supports. I respect it. I have no choice. At security, I got pulled aside for having so much over 3.4 oz liquid limit. The TSA officer opened the cooler bag of full bottles and multiple storage bags and gawped. Yes, I wanted to say. It me, Jugs O'Plenty, and it's raining milk.  

Anyway. The baby seemed absolutely fine without me. Of course. We chattered and blew kisses over FaceTime as he had breakfast, and if you're wondering what I did after that, award yourself ten points if you said: she pumped. Because guess what? I pumped. 

Parenthood is Hotel California - you can check out any time you like, but you can never really leave.