My baby turned 2 yesterday. So naturally I celebrated with chocolate cupcakes and a bag of expired breast milk.
I know it’s customary to write an earnest epistle to commemorate a baby’s two years of life. But I am not ready to write that letter. I am distracted by this bag of breast milk.
The last 8 oz
Because sitting with your last bag of breast milk– the bag that’s been buried under frozen guacamole from Costco and Popsicles that have passed their prime– is not a customary way to celebrate a life that is dear to you.
I can’t seem to bring myself to get rid of the breast milk even though it expired 14 months ago. Even before it expired, it took weeks to find someone to donate my extra milk to because no one wanted my Zoloft-tainted milk. With hundreds of ounces about to perish, I called every doula and La Leche League leader I could find to beg them to find someone who needed my milk. It finally found a home to a young mother who adopted a baby.
I hold on to this bag of milk, even though I’m still nursing. Seriously, am I supposed to just pitch it? When I look at it, I remember maniacally pumping when I thought I was headed back to work. All those hours with my sore nipples shoved in that plastic funnel thing. There is so effing way I can bear to see those hard-earned ounces in the trash bin next to used tea bags and broken crayons.
But what to do with it? I can’t carry it around forever like their baby books and bronzed shoes. Right?
Anyone have any creative or sacred rituals for those bags of milk that are past their prime? Because, honestly, right now I’d rather drink it myself than treat it like refuse.