Midnight Feeding

Out of palpable blackness, piercing through my ear plugs, comes the small wail of my newborn son in the bassinette near our bed. Instantly I’m awakened from a drunken stupor, leaving tranquil dreams in the ashes of jealous yearning. I lie still for a few moments, mournfully picturing myself leaving the delicious warmth of my down comforter, musing that the ravenous little stomach might forget about his needs and possibly even drift back off to sleep.

No such luck. Another shrill cry breaks the peace of night, and I’m forcefully persuaded to expose myself to the frigid elements of our bedroom, tiptoeing hastily to the edge of his bassinette to retrieve his warm, wiggling sweetness and bring him back to my bed for his nightcap.



I lay his tiny body close to my breast and guide his searching mouth to my nipple, trying desperately to float back off to sleep again to catch a few more rare minutes of rest until he’s satisfied. As he rashly sucks down the milk, his breath makes little screeching sounds, like the slamming of brakes as he tries to avoid a collision between his need for food and his need for air. I twinge in pain as he shifts and misdirects himself to the tip, and I shove my pinky in the corner of his mouth to loosen the vice-like hold he has upon me. Quickly he is rooting again, desperate to find the source of his last drink, and I gently relatch him.

After he empties one side, from a lying position, I prop him up across my chest and firmly pat his back, waiting for the burp that signals the okay to lay him on the other side. After he’s had his fill, I timidly leave the warmness of my bed again to change his diaper, kicking myself for not planning the births of any of my children in the warmer seasons of the year. His little legs quiver from the chilly night air, and I make hastier task of the unpleasant process. I dutifully swab his circumcision with triple antibiotic ointment and cover him with a dry washcloth in an effort to avoid the inevitably recurrent missile practice of late. While I lube his rashy little bottom with Balmex, he frowns at me, squinting in the light and holding clenched fists closely to his chest. His feet are cold, and I quickly zip up his sack pajamas, carry him back to my bed, and bring him close to me again for one last top-off of milk.

I hear a plucking sound as he unlatches, tilts his head away from my breast, and pulls slowly away from me with a smug little expression of sheer satisfaction. Sleep engulfs him again, and I wrap him snugly in a soft blue cloud of chenille, whispering sweet nothings in his crinkled little ear as I lay him back to bed.