When I sit in the dark room, nursing and rocking my baby to sleep, I often think about how beautiful this whole thing is, being able to nurture her in such a close and intimate way, and I revel in how utterly fulfilling it is to satisfy her needs for food and closeness, staying with her long after she has had her fill, and basking in her baby-sweetness; I all but write poetry in my head about these precious moments and wish to never let them go.  Until recently.  Now five minutes in the rocking chair feel like five years. The sudden onset of pain and soreness only makes it more excrutiating, as she simultaneously pulls me in and pushes me away without knowing what she's doing, in a wrestling match of epicly small proportions. And getting up at all hours of the night is becoming unbearable. The satisfaction is gone. Frustration has set in, an antsy feeling that gnaws at my chest. I resent the chair I sit in, I wonder "why can't she just finish?!" I beg, imploring, "just fall asleep! Please be done! Let me go..." But her steady sniffling breaths continue, whispering "I need you, need you, need you..." even as her hand bats at me and her nails scratch my skin. Sigh.  I don't resent her. Nor do I begrudge her this pleasure, this necessity. When it comes to her, I must be a giver. To give and give and give until I am literally drained. And then give more. She is an empty cup, a vessel waiting to be filled, not just with bodily nourishment but all sorts of good that I must pour into her. Drink deeply, my little love. Take everything you can. Fill up with Good so there is no room for that which is foul, ugly, corrupt, evil. Stay safe in my arms.  I no longer relish the time or the sentiment, but it is a necessity. To protect her. To feed her. To fill her. When I work with her to teach her to drink from a bottle, half of me cries. And the other half feels so free.