It was all laughter and tears of joy when my mom, three months after my father's passing, discovered Dad had left samples of his sperm at a fertility clinic before his vasectomy many years ago.
"I regretted it so much in the years after I made him do it," she sobbed. "Now, I'm so happy!" Bursting, she leaped at me.
I caught her, asking, "But, why does it matter, Mom?"
"Because now," she cried, squeezing me tightly, "now I can have another one of his babies."
***
Never had there been a more joyful mother-to-be. Mom glowed for nine months. She walked on air despite the taxing discomfort that accompanies pregnancy. When she wasn't keeping house or making meals, she was reading books about giving birth, nursing, and infants.
When I asked her about it, she said, "It's been eighteen years since you were born, Ty. Things change. My body has changed, and there's a lot about being pregnant that I just don't remember."
This first-hand experience in having a pregnant mother taught me that there are women out there who totally immerse themselves in all of the experiences of motherhood. My mom was one of them. It wasn't just intellectual curiosity, I soon realized. This was different. This seemed like a hormonal calling.
While Mom never neglected me, it seemed like she turned inward and grew infatuated with her own body. She cradled her growing tummy almost constantly. She absentmindedly massaged her breasts--in front of me sometimes.
Nursing was a huge deal to my mom--both before and after Anna was born. I suppose I always viewed breastfeeding in utilitarian terms--feed the hungry baby. Check. Mom saw it as this once-in-a-lifetime, pivotal epoch between mother and child. The feeding aspect seemed secondary to the emotional-physical bonding.
My gosh, the nursing classes, videos, and books! The way these lactation consultants or "doulas" talked about breastfeeding! You would think that the success or failure to properly nurse the baby would be the difference between Harvard Law and a federal penitentiary.
Incidentally, "doula"? That's a fucking weird word. "I'm a doula." Sounds like you're a piece of medical equipment--you're something that goes up a ferret's asshole.
"This poor fella has a digestive tract infection, doctor."
"Very well. Hand me that fucking doula."
I hate to admit it, but I was off-put by it all. When Anna came along, I tried to be helpful. I volunteered to change diapers and so on--play with and read to my tiny sister to give Mom a break. But I stayed away from the breastfeeding. Anna's cries in the night usually awakened me, and I would cover my ears with a pillow. During the day, I left the room whenever Mom broke out the spit-up towels and got comfortable on the couch.
I wouldn't have admitted it, but I think I was jealous.
***
The first time, it was a joke.
Mom was sitting at the end of the big couch in our family room. Anna was resting in a bouncy chair at her feet. Across from Mom in the two recliners were her new maternity friends, Mrs. Bowman and Mrs. Yopp. The three women had met in a post-natal nursing support group, and they enjoyed each other's company enough to set up a weekly nursing get-together. On that day, it happened to be at our house.
The three ladies had been nursing their newborns and chatting when I got home from basketball practice. I wasn't surprised to find them sitting there when I came in the front door.
They were in the midst of conversation when, spent from practice, I shuffled to the threshold of the family room. Mrs. Bowman glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back weakly. Mrs. Yopp's baby girl slept comfortably in her mother's lap. My mom nodded at something Mrs. Yopp had said as she adjusted the blankets covering Anna.
Sitting back, Mom saw me, grinned in her shy way around company, and said, "Welcome home, Ty." The other women offered similar sentiments, and I acknowledged them with a wave. Mom's eyes scanned me and offered me a compassionate expression. "You must be exhausted from practice. Is there anything you need?"
The idea just kind of jumped into my brain. Without a word, I went over to the couch and laid across it, putting my head in Mom's lap as if waiting for my turn at the breast. All three women erupted in surprised laughter.
"Ty!" Mom cried, turning pink and grinning with surprise and shock. "I think you're a bit too old for that!"
Smiling, I rose, kissed Mom's cheek, and left for the kitchen. Meanwhile, the mirth from the family room subsided, and Mrs. Bowman speculated as to how old was too old for breastfeeding. A new conversation began.
***
The second time I laid in Mom's lap on the couch was no joke.
It had been a bad day. I played poorly in our game the previous evening, and at practice, the coach announced changes to the starting lineup that put me on the bench. That was in addition to another thing that sucked. Hurt a bit, actually.
For some time, I had my eyes on one of my fellow seniors, a girl named Roe. Cute. Fun. Anyway, that day I gave my friend the go-ahead to talk to one of Roe's friends. You know how it is--put out the feelers, see what's up. Anyway, after school and before practice, my friend came up to me with the report. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Sorry, man. The word is 'no chance.'"
Fuck.
When I trudged inside through the garage, I found Mom alone in the family room, resting on the couch. Anna was asleep in the second crib that Mom had me put up in what she called the "Baby Nook" of our kitchen. Mom was surrounded by nursing gear. She didn't open her eyes when she spoke. "Welcome home, Ty," she sighed.
I didn't say a word. I dropped my things on the floor, padded across the carpet, and put my head in her lap as I climbed onto the couch. She looked down at me. "Aw," she cooed, petting my head. "There's my Ty, my guy."
I sighed and closed my eyes. Her gentle touches slowly changed into a rub. Words fail to describe how deeply her fingers soothed me. My entire body relaxed. My head thrummed with buzzing warmth.
"Thanks, Mom," I whispered, opening my eyes.
She looked down at me between her breasts, and her eyes sent a message of love and sympathy.
"You're so beautiful, Mom," I murmured.
She was. Long white-blonde hair that was so perfectly brushed that it looked like a frozen glacial waterfall. Warm brown eyes. A dainty, pointy nose. Cheeks like little, silky pillows of soft goose-down. Her full lips parted to reveal an appreciative smile.
One of her breasts grazed my temple. Under normal circumstances, such contact would feel weird--probably to both of us. That day, I didn't mind the touch, and I suppose she didn't either.
Mom's breasts were large, slumping things, depleted at that moment from having just finished nursing Anna. Since Mom made me do laundry every other week, I knew her breasts had grown significantly with Anna's arrival. I also knew that nursing changed them from swollen, bulbous orbs to pendulous, cozy cushions.
I noticed something else, something I hadn't picked up the first time I put myself in Mom's lap: the scent of breastmilk.
I let the fragrance fill my nose as I lay there under her loving care. It was somehow fresh, yet organic and human just the same. Something in the aroma made me think of warm honey. Underlying all of these was a scent that was fundamentally, perfectly feminine and alluring.
"You smell good, too," I whispered.
Mom smiled. "That's the smell of babies. There's nothing else like it in the world."
I shook my head slowly. "I know how Anna smells. I'm talking about you."
Mom inhaled and considered what she took in for a moment. Then, she looked at me and shrugged. When she did, her left breast lifted from my head and returned like a second kiss. "Maybe it's my breastmilk," she offered.
Again, I should have been embarrassed by this--talk of breastmilk and a hefty Mom-tit resting against my head. I wasn't. I closed my eyes and enjoyed, never wanting her touches to end. But eventually, Mom's hand stopped, and when I looked up at her, there were tears in her eyes.
"Mom?" I said, rising.
"I'm sorry, Ty," she whispered, wiping the tears away.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
She shook her head, and then she hesitated as if ashamed. Forlorn and hopeless, she looked at me and asked, "Would you do for me what I'm doing for you?"
I drew back and gestured to my lap. "You mean--?"
She nodded.
