Feeding My Son
On hunger and humanity.
The other night, I took O. to dinner, sitting in the park and letting him take tiny bites of my burger and fries. It was a perfect summer evening, one of those where it feels like practically everyone in the city is out.
Across the way, we spotted the woman who had been our lactation consultant almost a year ago, back when feeding O. still felt so uncertain—was it enough, were we doing it right? I wished she had been closer so I could’ve waved her down to see this big kid who loves bananas, zucchini, waffles, ice cream.
I guess I would’ve liked her to have seen how freely he eats, his little fingers grabbing at whatever’s offered. How easy it is now. I never worry for him. He can hold his bottle with both hands and smacks his lips—a big ahhh—when he’s done.
And how, so many times now, I’ve been nursing him in one arm and looking at my phone in the opposite hand, and I see another woman, another mother holding her tiny baby who is all skin and bones. Where is this freedom for them? To see your child full, happy, each meal a joy—or better yet, routine, an act so simple it barely registers. Who are the people who would see their faces and not say that is what every human deserves?
Here’s a link to resources on how to help starving people in Gaza right now.
P.S.: Enthusiasms will be off for the rest of August, but I’ll be sending out some of the old hits in the meantime. Be well, my friends! <3