I have tallied my days in this breeding business. Tallied my time, my body's offerings, and marveled over the months spent, the years passing, the small bodies stretching taller. It is the end of those days for me, and so I muse over the gifts and the meaning. I smile secretly at this body and what it has endured and overcome and been capable of. Healthy country stock, I am. I feel grace for the imperfections and scars, though they bother me sometimes. I am content.
30 months pregnant. Two and a half years.
39 months breastfeeding (and still counting). Three years, three months and counting.
Five and a half years of the last nine years gestating, nourishing, pushing my all into four small creatures. Days of milk and babies.
My littlest fellow is winding down his nursing days. I am allowing those times to dwindle slowly, while still sighing in perfect peace as we settle into the quiet room before bedtime, leaving the household bustle behind. He dangles from my lap, seeming suddenly so long where he had just been the tiny one downstairs among giants. In our silent space he is his own person, allowed to have his time with me with no other demands. I am content.
I have had purpose, I walk forward in continued purpose, yet I have completed purpose. My heart is calm and full. I have done what I set out to do. There are no doubts or lingering desires for another pregnancy. I no longer sense a small one waiting to be mine. I am content.
Contentment - it does not come with striving, and cannot be chased. It is rarely defined properly, since we all too often mistake what it takes to get there. And so it becomes a sudden gift, a feeling of such sweetness. I can remember clearly the antithesis of contentment, and it makes this time rich in its fullness.
And so these days wind down, these days of milk and babies. What remains to be given will come from my heart and some well of energy that is thankfully renewed each day. I will hold on to this contentment and sense of completion.
Job well done, workhorse body of mine.