A few days ago, somewhat planned and somewhat unplanned, we moved the baby, Toby, into his own crib in his own room for the night.  It was lovely to have our bedroom back in the evening and I think we all got better sleep.  Plus, when he woke up at 5:30, Toby just made happy sounds in his crib until about 6:00 and didn’t cry to come into our bed and nurse like he usually does.  Which brings me to my point: an unexpected side effect of the move is that, just like that, Toby is no longer nursing in the mornings.

Now, anyone who knows me well knows that I strongly dislike nursing.  “Hate” would be too strong, but my feelings skirt around the edges of that word.  My older two never really figured out breastfeeding.  So, Toby has been my first (and last!) baby to take to the breast and he was nursing regularly until his first birthday.  Since then, we’ve gotten it down to just morning and evening breastfeeding sessions which has suited me fine.  As I look towards the fall though, the change in everyone’s schedules, the rush to get out the door in the mornings, I have been worried about the morning nursing session with him.  How would I fit it in?  But also, how could I possibly drop it when he clearly relies on it so? 

And then, on the first morning when I went to get him from his crib, fully expecting to nurse him, he sort of got distracted by other things and it never happened.  He just had his usual banana-and-cereal breakfast and went about his day with the rest of us. 

And now I’m left with the striking thought that the last morning I nursed him in bed was the last morning I would nurse him in bed.  And, shockingly, I feel really sad about that. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I still really dislike breastfeeding.  And I didn’t particularly enjoy those morning-sessions with Toby.  But they have been doing some really wonderful things for me for the past year.  As he sucks away, I can think.  I think about all the things to do this day.  I think about all the things I want to do.  I think about the conversation with my husband from the day before.   I think about my dad and how much I miss him.  And, very quickly, my thoughts turn to prayer. 

I’ve never really had set prayer-times in my life.  Despite my priesthood and my ordination vows, daily morning and evening prayer has just eluded me.  Mornings are so stressful and jam-packed.  And by the evenings, I’m so tired that if I were to try to pray I would just sleep.  But that time in the mornings with Toby were my times to pick up all the strands of my life, to lay them out before me – before God – and to dwell with God in them.  Or maybe to dwell with them in God.  And, eventually, as I kept an eye on the time and my attention would make note of Toby lying there attached to me, I would always come back to the shape of his forehead, the wonder of his existence, the wonder of all of our existences: that I have this amazing, supportive husband, three healthy children, that we live mostly free from the stresses and anxieties that 99% of people in this world deal with.  In other words, I would invariably end up counting my blessings and giving thanks to God.  It was a blessed way to start a morning.

And then, Toby would finish and for a few minutes, he would just sit in bed with us, playing and laughing and smiling and investigating all the things.  And I loved those minutes with him: the calm before the storm. 

And now, just like that, it’s gone.  My baby is growing up.  And God, I imagine, will wait for me, for the next time I find a way to dwell with and in divinity in the midst of this ever-changing, ever-challenging, ever-beautiful life.