Night snuggles (So Good, So Dark 2013)

I hear it again… a sound in the middle of the night, echoing from two directions in our bedroom. My limbs are paralyzed in sleep; my brain responds to the noise long before the rest of my body does. Eventually they converge and my eyes start to adjust to the dim light of the nightlight in the corner of our bedroom, just in time for the rustling sound from the baby monitor to turn into whimpers.

Sharp blue lights burn my eyeballs as I glance at the clock on my bedside. 3:30. Groaning, I toss off the covers and slip on some pajama pants, tying the drawstring tight around my waist. I knew I should have gotten to bed earlier. My legs are wobbly as I stagger to the door to ease it open, allowing the pressure from the rest of the house to equalize with the bedroom. I rub some sleep from my eyes and stumble down the hallway to my son’s room.

His whimpers are increasing now, a familiar nyeh sound punctuating each cry: the signal for hunger. I can read his cues like a book; he makes it easy by being a simple study. My hand rests on the doorknob to his bedroom and I slowly open it up so as not to startle him. His crib is right across from the door, and I can see his little legs kicking out, just barely visible from the threshold.

I tiptoe to the side of his crib and pause for a second. His eyes are lightly closed, his mouth in the shape of a small O and making sucking motions; his arms are stiff and a little away from his body, which wriggles in anticipation of my waiting arms to hold him. A small smile forms on my lips as I think back to a few months ago when he did the same, with smaller eyes, a smaller mouth, a smaller body.

I acquiesce, reaching in to take the tiny baby in my hands, right under his armpits, and bring his head close to my face. In anticipation, his mouth finds my shoulder and starts to nibble, searching in vain for milk that isn't there. I kiss his chubby little cheek, cool from the ceiling fan overhead, and giggle to myself, remembering his sheer desperation for the comfort of a bosom in his first week of life. How simple it was for him to eat, feed, and sleep, but how incredibly difficult it was at the same time.

The Boppy waits by the rocker for my lap, and after I find a comfortable position, I lay my baby down and pull down my top. He’s already leaning towards me, his muscles pulling him into my body and his mouth towards my breast. It doesn't take long for him to reach his prize, and with a contented sigh, he draws milk in with slow sucks and swallows.



“Thrush?! How did I not think of that…” I was disappointed in myself, kicking myself in the pants for something I should have known. The white patch on the back of his tongue and his difficulty feeding, almost what looked like pain, made the issue glaringly apparent, but we didn't catch it until my mom’s friend saw a picture and pointed out the fungal infection.

I started to read further down the email my mom had sent with her friend’s guess as to what may be bothering him, but my eyes had become unfocused, the words blurring together. I was lost in thought – of course it was thrush! My precious six-week-old baby had that white patch since a few days after his birth, how did we not catch it?

We had tried to breastfeed the first couple weeks of Tycho’s life, but it was a struggle. Not only was it time-intensive, as he fed at least forty-five minutes every two hours, but after a few days, my nipples started to crack and bleed, with deep gouges that got worse every time we tried to feed. My toes would curl when he latched, and it took everything I had in me to not yelp in pain as he ate.

Forty-five minutes of sheer hell, then an hour dreading his next feed.

Sunny days became more bleak as we tried to soldier through. Each day led me down a darker, more twisted path, sucking me into a deep despair until I came to hate my son and hate having to feed him. My full-blown baby blues were starting to develop into something far more sinister, a black cloud hanging over my head despite the warm rays of the sun beaming down from bright blue skies.

I finally couldn’t take it anymore, and after two weeks and an attempt at exclusively pumping, I told Matt we were done with breastfeeding. It was too painful, too intense, too triggering. I felt more depressed each day, walking in a fog that wouldn’t lift.

“If that’s what you want to do, I fully support you.” I didn’t believe those words for a long time, but as Matt prepared Tycho’s first bottle of formula and got into a comfortable position to feed our son, I felt a great weight coming off my shoulders. Doubt crept in a number of times, but as the weeks pressed on and we found the right formula for Tycho, I felt more and more at ease.

At three months and after several applications of Nystatin and gentian violet, we finally finished our battle with thrush. My nipples had finally healed around then, too, which was a battle in itself considering the thrush had infected me, too. We found that Tycho had a milk protein allergy, and he was on a steady diet of organic soy formula. We had finally found our groove.

And at four months, I decided to change all of that.



I realize that my eyes have closed as his sucks become flutters, as his tongue rests in his mouth and his lips begin to part. Milk drunk, they call it, when baby has his fill of milk and finally comes to a place of rest. My vision is blurry again, fighting to adjust to the dark nursery, but I blink just enough to see the precious baby curled up in my lap.

We fought so hard to get to this point. Many hours at the breast pump, several milk-producing herbs and medicines, cutting out all dairy… just for this moment: a baby in my arms, an empty breast, a full tummy, and a heart bursting with love.

As I stroke his hair away from his face and bury my face into his sweet scent, I become instantly grateful for this child and for my journey to provide milk for him. I gently take his head and move it away, cover myself with my shirt, and allow his head to rest against me again. His breathing is slow, even, steady, and I find us to be in sync, our chests moving in rhythm, our breath swirling together.

The darkness swallows us once again, but this time, in a baby who sees me as his everything, I find my peace.