Nursing Lattes and Leaves

Opening to the first light of day, I struggle. She calls out, “Mama…..Mama!” Up from sleep, I roll over and land on my feet. Not all back yet, not all together yet, still though, I manage to pull from the best file, “Good morning, baby! Hi, sweet girl.” I change her diaper in the dark. It’s cold but she protests socks. I put her back in her crib and say, “Ok, you tell me when you’re ready. I’ll be over here.” Not proud of myself, I lay on the bed while she jumps in the crib. She wants to cry, but jumps her way through the hurt. Moments later I stand before her with my arms open. “Ready now?”

We hug. We put on socks. Into the day we go….but I’m….carrying something. Dream hangover? Plane crash into building? Nuclear test? Or just me. I feel the sensation of someone poking me in the chest to make a point, only it’s happening from the inside.

My best friend is visiting. You know you’re nearing forty when, at 7:30pm, the highlight (and you’re truly looking forward to it!) is what TV shows you’ll watch each night. We pull out the couch, nestle in pillows, dip oreos, howl and roar at our favorite scenes.

*****

Who ever thought to put a latte in a bowl? I weave my way through narrow spaces in this small downtown Oakland café, carrying my bowl in the way I might if I were collecting alms, or offering prayers. Not today. Today it’s all about the latte, and joining my best friend who waits at the table outside. Just now she is nursing her baby, and the Italian man asks, “Did you get everything you need?” Looking around, “Actually, we didn’t get utensils.” He shouts over the crowd, “Hey, the woman with the baby needs silverware, get her what she needs!” I smile, “Thanks.”

Is there anything better than sitting with someone you love and sharing what’s really in your heart? She tells me that when she was pregnant her mother started to cry when asking if my friend might experience post-partum depression after delivering. “It’s so isolating, you know? Of course, yeah, of course there was some depression, but you can’t say that to anybody. You can’t talk about that – everyone will think you’re psycho.”

We talk, we laugh, we dish. Sometimes tears arise, then recede, and then the wind, the guy’s hot pink shirt at the next table. We share a poached egg on a bowl of polenta, with hints of blue cheese sprinkled on top. The good thing about aging is that at any point in the conversation I can turn around and look behind me to see a long stretch of time, the long road that we have walked together. Returning to the table, I salt, stir, sip, and delight in what is right before me – these precious details. And the details are never about small things, rather they are an extension of love, to see how many creative iterations love can inspire.

Walking through the neighborhood in the afternoon, we marvel aloud as we pass under a Redwood tree, and then turn a corner at the end of the lane to behold a bright purple bougainvillea. River says, “Mama, fowr.” “Yes, baby, that’s a beautiful flower.”

I’m trying to get closer to naming the truest part of my experience. While walking earlier with River, I looked up into the leaves of a Japanese Maple, red brilliant swarm – like a school of minnows, I thought. And then so many thoughts and feelings followed. Thoughts that reside close to heart, quietly in mind, rarely exchanged except in the privacy of my small, sensual dance with my small, momentary world. Like any intimate relationship, it will just take a bit of time to relax into the opening. It’s been a very long walk-about. Sometimes it becomes a habit to keep walking, to refuse to share generously because there is always so much more to learn.

Upstairs, brushing my teeth before bed, I remembered the sensation in my breasts as I glanced at my friend nursing her baby earlier in the day. It’s been eight months since I nursed River. I lifted my shirt and with the slightest touch, milk appeared. Amazing.