I just returned to my desk after a last trip to The Bunker. I picked up my CD player and my pump supplies, and here I am. I haven't used that room since November, and it's probably been that long or perhaps longer since I used my pump at home. Finn doesn't use bottles anymore, either, so it's pretty safe for me to pack all that stuff up.
I just haven't.
I keep thinking, "Maybe I'll go pump," but then I never do. It's pure sentimentality, now. Looking back romantically on the time when things were different. Part of me is sorry to say goodbye to it, even though that room is a little hole that smells odd and moldy, it was time consuming, and it's not exactly a joy to hook the teats up to a suction machine.
It's the same romantic look back on times past that makes people have two or more kids.
Last night, I saw a baby on a television program. He was small and gurgly; the fat little helpless infant that makes people think they want another fat little helpless infant. I had a moment of wistful "Aw, I don't have a baby anymore. Finn's so big," and I could no longer remember what it was like when he was that small. I didn't want a new baby; I wanted the feeling of my baby, when he was still a baby. But I don't want my baby to be a baby again. As impossible as he is to, say, take to any kind of social gathering or into any home that is not child-proofed (there's nothing like a home that has no children to make you realize that even though you have not officially child-proofed your house, it is, indeed, child-proof), I don't want another helpless baby.
I'm just fine with my toddler who won't say "mama."