Today’s our two-year NICU-homecoming anniversary. I didn’t expect anyone but Rob and I to remember it. I now wonder if Toby, Eleanor and Callista remember somehow.
For two years now, our first big event of the day has involved breastmilk. In their early days home, it was often a bottle of expressed milk for two while I attempted to breastfeed one. Then it became bottle for one and breast for two. Eventually, all three had their first “meal” of the day direct from the source.
Until this morning, that is.
On most days, my 2-years-and-2-months-old kiddos only nurse when they first wake in the morning, an event that is frantically requested, often leading to tears because diaper changes, teeth brushing and other such things get in the way of what the want rightthissecond. I didn’t see them quitting anytime soon (not that they’re quitting now, but who knows?).
This morning, I freed Eleanor from her bed first and sent her out to the living room closely followed by Callista. Toby lazed in his bed and was slow to stand up for rescue, and by the time the two or so minutes passed between the girls’ departure and our exit from the bedroom, Eleanor and Callista had already climbed into their chairs at the kitchen table and buckled themselves in.
“Eat!” they said, as Toby scrambled up in his chair.
“What about diapers? Don’t you think we should do diapers first?”
“No! EAT!” they said, grinning.
“Well, what about milkies?” That’s what they call breastfeeding.
“No milkies. Eat!”
Well, OK. I made them breakfast (Trader Joe’s Joe’s-O’s and Fruity-O’s, greek yogurt with sprinkles, waffles and a cup of milk each) and pondered the timing of this first refusal, if that’s what it is. Then I knew I needed to record it here while they ate and before I got too busy, just in case this is the first day of the rest of a new life – again.