My eyes are so heavy, and my heart is beating a little too fast. I should probably drink some more water. But I lie here, lost in my thoughts, my to-do list scrolling over and over through my tired brain, causing my heart to pound even harder. I have two days before we leave for Florida. I will never get everything done.
I worry about the flight. I must be out of my mind to fly with all three kids by myself. I think about needing bottles for the boys.
Wait. I'm supposed to be breastfeeding Little Hawk.
But, I can't remember the last time I nursed him. What day was it? I know it hurt, I know he crawled up my body, yanking my nipple, desperately trying to get more milk. But, that last time? I don't know what day it was. I don't know when.
I panic. I wasn't paying attention. Even when I knew this was going to be my last baby, I wasn't paying attention.
Lying in the darkness, I want nothing more than to nurse him, caress his cheek, stroke the budding hairs that seemed to have bloomed out of nowhere on the top of his tiny round head. I want to kiss his forehead and tell him he is my sweet boy.
I desperately try to think back, but my mind just scrambles pictures of the memories of the last couple weeks -- none that include that moment I need to find. None that can show me when exactly we were done.
The tears well up. I squeeze my nipples in the darkness. I think I feel some wetness. Relief rushes over me like the touch of the wave on your burning feet when you finally reach the water after running through hot sand.
I decide I will nurse him tomorrow, in the rocking chair. I will watch him and smile, and I won't go on IG or Pinterest or Facebook. I will make a point to remember.
It only lasted a few minutes before he started pulling my nipple like a piece of beef jerky and climbing up my chest. No more milk. But now if this is the last time, I know we ended nursing right. Just the two of us...my last baby.