Breaking Up With The Bottle

At night, we put on the soft lights, turn off the loud toys, speak in whispers and smiles. Your pajamas are footed and too tight now.  The warm flannel is starting to wear on the knees from where you've crawled along all these months.

At night, we do what we've always done since you came to us.  We sit together, mother and son, and rock.  I smell your hair while reading the pages of a long-ago memorized story.  I watch the direction of your eyes, taking in the pictures and colors, anticipating the next thing to happen.  

At night, mama turns out the light.  I cradle you, so big now with feet stretching over the side, and nuzzle you into me.  You smile, knowing it's coming.  Your mouth, so full of teeth and words, accepts the bottle, the warm milk lulling you to sleep, yet again.

At night, I rock you.  I memorize your eyelashes, your profile, the softness of your skin.  As I always have, I think about this boy in my arms, the future before us. A man, with dreams and goals, hardships and heartaches, successes and failures.  A man, with his own family, visiting his old mother, the same one that holds him now, rocking.  

At night, when your milky breath becomes steady and the heaviness of eyes make them impossible to keep open, you are never so real to me.  This boy is mine.  With this bottle I have nourished him, put him to sleep, comforted him.  

At night, when you cry for the last time because the bottle is too slow in coming, mama cries too, for it is the last bottle we will share.  

I put you to bed.  And with that, I put the bottle to bed as well. 

Good night to our tradition, founded in necessity, founded in love, our moment alone..