BB is playing on his Baby Einstein mat, forcefully tugging on Captain Calamari with one hand, shaking the rattle attached to one of his multicolored appendages, while loudly sucking on his other hand, heard over the gentle sounds of baby-ized Mozart (or Beethoven?). The motorized hum hum of my breast pump is audible, and as I stare at my precious little cherub, trying to force out the milk that’s got to be inside my breasts somewhere, our eyes connect and instantly my hear melts.
We continue staring at each other. I look down at the plastic attached to my breasts and feel it gently tugging at me in a rhythmic motion my little cherub often lacks. The “white gold” is starting to make its way out, ever so slowly, and I can hear the faintest drip as it makes its way down the pump to be collected. Each slow drip represents the physical manifestation of my undying love for my little one; it shows what I’m willing to do to take care of him. The tiniest of white streams are starting to flow from my body, allowing themselves to be collected drop by drop at the end of their short journey, which for me often feels painfully long. For a moment I think, Maybe he’ll be okay for another couple minutes. I just need a couple minutes–
He hasn’t shit in over 60 hours, since before he got his two month shots. At this point the faintest of blue lines begins to peek through his onesie, indicating his diaper has become soiled. Damn you, diaper. I sigh and used my right hand (which is strategically propping a pillow up to hold the pump’s suction cones awkwardly in place against my breasts) to hit the power button, allowing the suction to stop and the piece to fall lifelessly off of me.
As I remove myself from the rest of the pump and try to collect any drops that may have been left, I get a strong whiff of what’s awaiting me in mere moments, impressive as the little body of its origins remained, staring, about two and a half feet from me.
This is surely what defeat smells like.