cafe mama

a domestic realist blog

five : missing . 19 november . 2012

This post is my fifth post in the Fortnight of Flash, a guilt-free celebration of brief memoir, fiction, and whatever else you can flash. No length too short, less than 750 words, and prizes!

It comes to me, some days not at all and sometimes with a force as if someone shoved me, as if my own five-year-old ran into me at full explosive tilt. Some days over and over again. Some days a glance, is all.

I think to myself, "breastfeeding," or "baby talk," and I wonder if I will ever do this again. Feed a baby, stay awake through throaty sniffly cries, giggle and play with the toes of something that was just months or days ago in my belly. Look that tired, as that mom, that tired and thrilling with endorphins.

I go to the doctor, and she tells me how it's good, I'm sending these little ones off for the last time, and I think, last five-year-old checkup, I think, last booster shots in legs, and though I can stand never to have the needle go in, again, never see that shock of hurt that is meant to protect -- but how does he know that? -- never have to nurse a baby back from screaming injury, I want to protest, loudly, to say to her, "I'm not done!"

But maybe I am, and maybe I don't get to choose, and the pain of each month is: even the maybe is 10,000 miles too far away.

ads, which strive, which fail to yield

read my previous post . four : kindergarten shoes . november 14 . 2012