The last time he just snuggled in, sucked gently, but mostly just laid there nestled into me with his small hands wrapped around me in a sweet embrace. Ten minutes.
The first time he was so tiny and sleepy that he hardly opened his mouth wide enough to latch, I had to keep tickling his neck to keep him awake. Twenty minutes, switch sides, twenty minutes.
As he grew he became possessive, hugging my breast as if it were a stuffed toy or lovie. Sometimes he would slide one hand behind me and wiggle his fingers, gently stroking my side or my back. Soothing me as he was soothed.
Before I cut my hair he would run it through his chubby little fingers, so gently, loving the softness. After I cut my hair he weaved his hand in and out between my fingers, smiling between swallows.
One morning I was sitting on the couch with him and he pulled my camisole down and latched right on, just sitting there facing me. Sometimes he tried nursing standing up, with absolutely no success.
Whenever he got shots at the doctor he nursed afterward, the comfort of his mother washing away the sting of the needles.
He was perplexed if I wore a shirt with buttons, because that didn't pull up or down. I'll never forget the morning I went in to get him and he sat up and chirped "Nurse!" with a big grin.
My favorite part of the child-nourishing process was breastfeeding, even with two rounds of mastitis, months of battling thrush, and a nipple infection.
I can't wait until I get to nourish my next baby with milk from my body again.
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