Nursing Near Meteorites
We’ve been here for only a minute. I glance down at my red-faced infant. The desperation on his face echoes the ache in my breasts. If we don’t find a place to nurse in t minus 15 seconds, we’ll both explode.
We breeze through life size bears and loin-clothed gatherers, skim Southeast Asia’s history detailed through colorful pots, and cast a glance at man’s first apparition, neanderthal, hardly impressed. Could he lactate? No? Then we’re not stopping. The jungle lures us, but only for a minute. Every kind of insect is pinned to the wall, encased in floor to ceiling glass. Scarlet red, vibrant green, canary yellow mapped by size and wingspan. This is kind of incredible, I think. Something most people despise turned colorful, crunchy artwork. My thoughts are interrupted by a burning, heavy feeling. We have to hurry, I tell Keenan. If no one else were here I’d nurse topless next to that taxidermied Tiger, I think to myself. I’d nurse right now if no one else were here.
As fellow mammals, we Ooh and Ahh at the two gazillion pound whale levitating near the ceiling and speed walk the perimeter of the Ocean Room. We huff and puff two year old Silas from glass case to glass case. We’re not missing anything. We came to see the world’s natural history and we are not leaving until our two year old has exhausted himself seeing the world’s natural history. We’ve been here before, moving at the same, albeit short-attention-span, speed. We’ve been here before, but at a different speed, a leisurely couple without a child to chase (and a baby attached).
I’ve been here before, at my own speed. Surrounded by these freeze frames of nature, now fixed in rooms and glass cases, I am suddenly running through my own memories. I am moving even faster, the world around me is alive, and I am alone. For a moment or maybe hours, I drift to where and when I wasn’t navigating a universe of urgency.
I am running down the hilly street. Sky high cottonwood trees wave overhead and I lope through waves of warm and cool air. Head forward, I shake out my arms, even as my legs effortlessly pump forward. The canal road wraps for miles along my hometown, a light green vein in a small rural town inevitably turning suburban. But I rarely see others on it. I often wish I’d pass other runners, or even walkers. Why aren’t there more people out on every perfect summer night?
I run alone but the air buzzes with summer life. Horses graze in pastures to the left as I steer around a testy gaggle of geese and their droppings. I burst through low hanging clouds of gnats swarming under the oldest tree in the town — a massive oak with gnarled roots. Its branches stretch out over the green water. I flinch and brush a mosquito from my neck. I feel my muscles loosening and my legs speeding up. I lean in and feel my heart pounding, lips slightly apart, eyes focused ahead. I’m on my toes, strides lengthened and smooth, in this rhythm I could run for miles.
I swallow my pace and sink into a slow jog. I realize sweat is pouring from my whole body, soaking every inch of my skin and tank top. I pull my shirt up, exposing my stomach, to wipe my face. A light breeze murmurs past the winding canal, offering some relief. My hair falls forward on my red face but I don’t bother pushing it aside. My hands on my waist, I let my legs slip into a walk.
Back in The Ocean Room, the dark room and blue lights cast a deep shadow on our faces. The toddler’s face is blue, Keenan’s face is blue, we are all deep blue. I come up for air after my reverie. There are ripples of similarity, moving through a path with purpose, physical tenacity urging me forward, a world of images along the way. And yet now I am in an ocean on the other side of the world, leading, chasing, cajoling, panicking. With the people I love in a world grander than I can fathom, but still taut with discontent.
The baby’s cry stops but his face isn’t happy. He’s got a look of resigned angst. My whole body stresses. (How could I have been so distracted.) He’s so patient He’s such a good baby I’m so tired I need to nurse, I think. Looking around in desperation, I veer off into the darkest edge of the vast ocean room. I fanangle the baby carrier, digging through straps and buckles, arching my back, smooshing the baby to the side, while I unbutton my oxford shirt and try nursing him from within the carrier — something I’ve never tried.
It doesn’t work. I guess it matters how high or low your breasts are and how big or small the baby is and whether you don’t have night-blindness in the deep blue Ocean Room. A Japanese family brushes past, speaking in tongues. I’ve seen my sister-in-law twist just so for apropos sneaky nursing with her carrier, but no. The baby rages when his latch breaks and milk runs down my stomach. I look up and wonder, How does a whale nurse?
I imagine she never stops. Somewhere near the blue surface, her baby rides her underbelly to suckle. Does she know she’s the largest mammal? Does she purposefully slow her stroke against the pressure of great water to ease her baby’s latch? Does she blister or bleed, cry or flinch? Does she feel hindered by a still-giant baby strapped to her chest? Does she remember when she swam with freedom and speed?
The baby’s wail pierces my thoughts, and everyone else’s in the entire Ocean Room. My twelve pound baby has overextended the hospitality of this gracious whale. It’s time to go.
Deflated yet very much engorged, we pioneer with our stroller to the elevator and now we’re chasing Silas; he is running for the gems. I hate that room. It looks like a dim, carpeted kiva from the 70s and precious stones bore me. Sparkling rocks lined up in cases, smudgey glass tainting their sparkle. But Silas loves the rise and fall of the giant steps and running the carpeted pathways through the glass cases. This will keep him occupied while we determine our next move. I’m surrounded by nature and I can’t even find a place to be natural.
The air cools as we enter the gem room. It is empty of tourists, like usual. It’s a good thing because the baby roars. Redder, louder, and angrier than any previous bout in the museum. I yell ahead to Keenan, reverse and head to a neighboring room edged by unmoving space rocks. I find a niche and drop to the floor, resting my back against a matte black meteorite.
The baby and I unravel ourselves from the hot straps and cloth of the black carrier. My back and front is dark and damp from milk and sweat. Normally shy, even prudish, I’m overwhelmed by a rushed, even brash, animal sense that overturns my typical conservative nursing protocol. I don’t take the time to unbutton my shirt or don a cover and stick the baby’s face up my shirt, slightly exposing myself. Armed with that certain look and a searing Mama Bear frequency, I’m sure no one’s eyes will linger. Though no one’s looking, tourists only turning towards glittering gems in the dimly lit kiva, I feel a flash of defiance run down my back. I dare someone to say something, anything to me about feeding my baby in public. It feels good. Protective. Fierce. The cold floor and giant room and dim lights and museum fatigue are lacerated by pulsing adrenaline and frayed nerves. I am on that run again, my hair in my face, my body strong, a rush of adrenaline as if I had just run six miles. My baby nestles in my soft stomach.
The black rock is cool as let-down releases the milk. The baby is hot and engrossed. A sigh escapes my lips and I reactively sit up, reaching for my too-far water bottle. I can’t reach it. Resigned and relieved to have to hold still, I close my eyes. Serotonin floods my brain. Reality tilts, nursing on the floor of the Natural History Museum, and a pool of calm tingles my whole body. I sense people walking by.
They can step over me.
We are a tableau. Part of the scenery.
Mother and Child: Nursing Through Space.
I look down at Him. The baby’s nose, his lips. The soft hair sprouting along his fuzzy hairline. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And his smell. With him this close, I can’t help but nuzzle his hair and take in his smell. A deep inhale floods my brain to my fingertips. It hits me. Just like the crunchy insects, the neanderthals, the giant blue whale, the buffalo: I provide life. I am nature. I don’t sit encased behind dusty glass only to sparkle on demand for casual observers. I choose the sprint, the surge, the wind-in-your-hair moments. The moments I’m completely and utterly in my body. And by proximity, I also choose the meandering life plans, the seasons of confusion, the chaos or apathy of relationships, tripped-up faith, the inevitable let-down. The moment to moment, room to room, kingdom to kingdom exploration of life that hopefully unfolds into my miraculous evolution as both hard and soft; whole and broken; giver and a gracious receiver. Baby bound to my chest, hair flowing wild.
I hear Silas giggling, probably darting between glass cases of precious stones and hurdling down carpeted steps. One day I will be dust, but today I am living. I lean into my space rock, softly nursing.
