The title’s probably a misnomer, because I’m sure this has happened more than once. 4-year-old-me would spill my cup of 2% at the dinner table; my mother would give me a stern look, and I’d subsequently melt into tears – so really, this should be titled “One of the Several Days I’ve Cried over Spilled Milk.” But that’s not as catchy.
The last time I disobeyed the age-old adage and cried over spilled milk, I was twenty-five years old, which would have been utterly inexcusable if the milk had been of the cow, almond, soy, or even the $50-a-bottle-Josie-Maran-argan-oil variety. The milk I spilled on this fateful day, however, was my own: 4 fluid ounces of breast milk that had taken me the last half hour to pump.
For the last three weeks, I had been painstakingly collecting my milk and dividing it into little freezer bags so that I would have a nice stockpile before I returned to work and my son Cal, who was 2-months old at this point, started daycare. This particular morning was my first day back to work after 9 glorious (albeit sleep-deprived, spit-up laden) weeks of maternity leave.
You’ve probably heard breast milk called “liquid gold.” You probably know all the benefits of feeding your child breast milk, and that the longer you breastfeed, the later in life they reap those benefits. Benefits like protection from asthma, allergies, childhood obesity and a slew of other diseases, not to mention the lowered risk of SIDS.
So you can probably understand why any mother would gasp in horror when, as she was pouring a freshly pumped bag of that precious milk into a plastic lined nurser bottle, she did not see that milk collect in bottle insert, but rather watched it leak out of the bottle’s open-ended bottom and onto the counter.
Yeah, I was ‘that mother.’ In one of those moments of motherhood-induced dementia, I had forgotten to put the bottle insert in.
At the sound of each drop of breast milk hitting our linoleum floor, maternally-masochistic visions of Cal’s first day at daycare danced in my head, and I ultimately succumbed to a sobbing hysteria:
Drip…
Laying Cal down in his classroom crib, then leaving him for the longest stretch we’ve been apart since his conception.
Drop…
An inconsolable Cal with poop in his diaper, gunk on his face, and jam on his hands, as his teachers stand idly by in the background.
Drip…
Me at my desk at work, checking my watch for the umpteenth time, counting the minutes until I can pick Cal up.
Drop…
Cal happily cradled in the arms of one of his teachers, failing to notice that I’m waving to him through the classroom’s reinforced glass window.
So not only had I apparently been harboring deep-rooted fears that Cal’s teachers would simultaneously neglect him and win his heart, it turns out that I was completely dreading going back to work.
After mentally ticking off the lies I could tell my boss to get out of going back that day (“My dog ate my homework – I mean, my car broke down…”), I resolved that cuddling with Cal was probably a better use of the 20 minutes we had left together before it was time to leave.
I nursed him while I waited for the milk in one of the aforementioned freezer bags to thaw, and you know what? That extra time actually made me feel slightly uneasy about leaving. (“Slightly” being the operative word.)
Now when Cal ultimately spills his own cup of 2% in another 4 years or so, I can’t promise that I won’t give him a stern look. (How many times do I have to tell him not to throw his peas?!?) But I can promise to give him a hug when he inevitably cries, and to laugh as I recall the day I let myself get so distraught over half a cup of spilled milk.
Kirsten Baker
Developing Blogger
1 Comment
I had my children 20+ years ago and I so remember these feelings! Good job!