I was breastfeeding my 6-day-old daughter, Éléa, side-line (both on our sides) when I was overcome with sadness and love. She is a beautiful, healthy, robust little creature with a hearty appetite, and I could feel the gentle tugs from her nursing. Then she drifted off to sleep, and I thought about how our relationship had already changed since her birth.
For the previous nine months, I held her in a full body embrace. Physically and metaphorically, I held her closer to my heart than I could ever hold anyone.
I will never hold her that close again.
Being her mother will be a profound ongoing lesson that everything changes, and of letting go while still loving fiercely and fully.
But right now I cry and grieve a little for what I had with her. Even though I so wanted to meet her and hold her in my arms. Even though wanting to meet her outside my womb was part of what gave me the strength and determination to push past pain and fatigue and push her into the world.
Before, we were connected by the umbilical cord, and her every need had been met through my body. Now, my breast is the closest thing she has to the warm liquid womb-home she once knew, and this is one way I meet her needs. Another way is by holding her as close as I can.
I realize that motherhood teaches us to be less selfish. My daughter is no longer only “mine.” She can be loved and soothed and cared for by her father and so many other people who love her. By birthing her, I lost the exclusivity of pregnancy. And she gained a whole new world of people and other beings to love and be loved by.
My Little Grief is worth this expanded horizon of love.