What breastfeeding is to me

She runs to me, signing and pointing, excitedly jumping from foot to foot. "Milk?" she squeaks in her tiny toddler voice. I grin. She gathers up her blanket and her stuffed animal horse and makes a beeline for our rocking chair.

Cradling my sleepy baby in my arms I lift my shirt and pull her in close. She opens wide and latches, instinctively knowing what to do. She drinks life. She swallows over and over again as her body relaxes and her eyes roll back in her head. Sweet goodness that defends, nourishes and comforts. Super food. She starts out with her legs flopped over the chair's arm rest and her horsey's floppy leg gripped between her first and middle finger. Soon, all 34" of her wrap around me as if we are side by side puzzle pieces. Her warm skin against mine. my shoulders relax and the to do list running through my heads screeches to a halt. I gaze at my not-such-a-baby daughter and drink her in. Her tousled hair, her fingers now stroking the skin above my heart, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. She is asleep and yet she continues to drink occasionally with fluttery sucks in between long pauses. Her arms fall limp as the warmth of my milk floods her stomach and parts of it filter into her veins. My body not only gave her life, but sustained it with perfect food for 19 1/2 months now. It never ceases to amaze me that a body I once berated in the mirror can do such an amazing feat.

She falls off, jaw slack and breath shallow. I stay exposed as to not ruin the moment of perfection. Her cheek is flushed from being pressed against my skin. we both sigh as I continue to rock her gently and hold her to me. The little girl who's entire body could fit from the crook of my elbow to the palm of my hand. My fingertips now graze the small of her back while she's cradled in my arm. Yet she's still by baby girl. My miracle who still loves nothing more than to be comforted and nourished with mama's milk. I can't swallow the lump in my throat as I slowly stand and walk to the side of her crib. I do the Mommy dance; swaying as if pulled by forces outside me as I lay her down and pull a blanket over her back. she shifts and finds her comfortable position. I walk to her door and quietly pull it close, taking one last glance at my sleeping daughter. Perfection.