She was an angel, I think, if angels can be plain, rough, and all crisp around the edges, dressed in hygienic blue.
I had read all the La Leche books; and so as it pertained to breastfeeding, I was good to go. I was an expert—at least, a book expert!
I so wanted to nurse this child, this live wonder, lying in my arms. After the loss of my first full term little girl Noelle three years before, and after leaving her lifeless body at the hospital and walking home to emptiness, I wanted bone-deep for all to be made right this time. I wanted the pained watercolor memory of uterine life to be replaced with the vibrant flush of this squirming child in arms.
Christian nibbled, but would not latch on, as much as I coaxed and gentled and hoped and prayed and tried-cried. But the book was just…
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