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Christmas Eve Nursing
By Theresa Rose
As I nursed by 10-month-old son on Christmas Eve in the nursery of a
Christian church, I couldn't help but observe the terrible paradox going
on
a few yards away.
A 2 ?-year-old boy was loudly crying for his mother. "Mommy, Mommy, I want my Mommy," he screamed from the basement of the church. His wails would die down for a few seconds only to begin again with renewed fervor. "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" he cried as if he thought, "If I call loud enough, she might come to me."
The boy's father sat by stoically not attempting to comfort his distraught child. "That's enough now," he said coldly.
Eventually, the crying stopped as the boy accepted that his beloved Mommy was not available to him.
Where was she? She was up at the front of the church in her choir gown musically proclaiming the birth of Christ while the child she birthed lamented over her absence.
Why is it that this irony hit me with full force while it eluded those around me?
The only answer I can come up with -- Prolactin.