Momsicles: LMM's Frozen Breast Milk Pops

The other afternoon, as I was organizing one of my kitchen cupboards, I came across my popsicle molds, which are normally used a lot in the summer so I can make healthy juice pops for the children. I tossed them into the sink to wash, and as I did, my eyes fell on the bottle of freshly-pumped breast milk I had set aside to store, and that's when inspiration struck.

(I'll bet you already know where I'm going with this, don't you? ;))

Breast milk freezes well in a bag. Why wouldn't it freeze well in a popsicle mold?

Because breast milk is a precious commodity, and I have plans for mine, and each mold cavity holds two ounces of liquid, I only filled two of them with liquid gold, and set them in the freezer to see what would happen.

Breastfed children are funny. When my children were little, Mr. S used to laugh every time their faces became smeared with that blissfully bleary milk-drunk expression; you know, the one that causes little mouths to slow their rhythm and little eyes to flutter and roll, and when they got older and began to talk, knowing that children are breast milk connoisseurs, he never failed to ask them the same questions in regard to their breakfast, lunch, or dinner. The conversation always went something like this:

Dad: "Is that good stuff?"

Child 1, 2, or 3: Nods

Dad: "Is it? What does it taste like?"

To which each child would reply with their own opinion. The oldest always said "red popsicles", the middle one (who is the ornery one of the bunch, and has always found himself extremely amusing, even as a toddler) would invariably say, "dill pickles", and the baby, our only little lady, would chirp the word "marshmallows!" with exuberance and joy, followed by the proclamation that it was "deee-wicious!"

(Disclaimer: My breast milk has never tasted like dill pickles. The middle kid, aside from being a clown, loved dill pickles, so I think it was a compliment.)

I allowed my milk pops to freeze overnight, and unmolded one the following evening. I had to let the mold set in a bowl of cool water for a couple of minutes to release the final product, but it finally came out fairly well--and what I held in my hand was a sleek vanilla-colored creamsicle. I was so excited that I went on the search to find the Mister.

"Check this out!" I cried when I'd found him. "I made a Momsicle!"

He looked up from the newspaper with absolutely no surprise. Very little fazes him, particularly now that I am blogging about our life. "Did you say a momsicle?" he asked.

"Yes! I made it from my milk. Here," I said, holding it out to him. "Try it."

He took a bite. So did I.

And, you know what?

It was really very good.

It didn't taste like a red popsicle, and it certainly didn't taste like a dill pickle, but it did sort of taste like a marshmallow, and after a couple more bites, I realized that my little lady's estimation of breast milk is quite accurate: it honestly was deee-wicious. ;)

If you're into consuming breast milk for health purposes, have some extra milk stockpiled, and happen to  like ice cream bars, Momsicles might just be the way to go. Some women give them to their little ones to ease teething pain, too.

Because the calories in breast milk vary from woman to woman, depending on diet, and the time of day milk is expressed, (as well as the size of your popsicle molds) it is difficult to determine just how many calories a typical Momsicle will contain, but each of mine was approximately 22 calories, and you can be sure, no matter what, that your Momsicles will be loaded with lots of nutritious vitamins, nutrients, immune-boosting antibodies, and good fat!

Reunited!

As I sit down to write this post, I am truly a woman at peace. The house is very still, as it always is during the early hours of morning, but it no longer feels as if the silence is deafening and oppressing; it is a contented sort of peaceful quiet that I can truly enjoy once more because all is well and it feels as if my world is complete once more.

S came home to me last night.

It seemed as if he had been gone forever, and by the time I heard his car pull into our driveway around 10:50 p.m., I was as lighthearted and excited as I'd been on our very first date 16 years ago, because, you see, I had something very important to share with him.

As difficult as the long week was, I think the final three hours leading to his imminent arrival were far worse; he was so very close, but still quite far. I did a lot of pacing and clock-watching during those last 180 minutes, and every time my phone chimed, alerting me that he had texted an arrival time update, my heart soared.

Are you there, baby? I'm two hours out. Love you!

Missing you like crazy. I'm about an hour from home. 

Less than 30 minutes now. I can't wait to nurse. Love you.

Neither of us are strangers to homecomings, and I wanted this one to be just as special and meaningful as the ones we've shared in the past. I had prepared myself as meticulously as I had on that first evening so long ago, and made our nursing space warm and inviting with lit candles and lamplight.

And I had placed the small wine-colored velvet pillow, what we call S' nursing pillow, in its proper place, among my reclining pillows, on our bed.

Just before 11:00, headlights washed through the window, and I heard the familiar purring of his car as it came to a smooth stop in front of our home. The engine stopped. Everything went dark. And my heart began to race.

I never thought he would make it inside!

He didn't need his key last night because I was waiting at the door to let him in.

He was beautiful!

There were several long moments of exchanging tight embraces and long kisses and sweet endearments, and he did what he has done for many years, the one thing that makes me feel beautiful and adored and treasured.

He took my face in his hands and looked into my eyes, as if memorizing what he saw in them.

"I missed this face," he said. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," I replied. "More than anything. I'm so glad you're home."

From there, things grew a bit flirtatious; I asked him how he liked my new blouse, and I took him by the hand, and said, "Come with me. I want to show you something."

He was more than willing to follow me to the bedroom.

My body blossomed in S' absence, and I wanted to share the complete transformation with him, so we began our beautiful nursing session by looking at the photos I had taken throughout the week, and as I stroked his hair and he rubbed my back, I asked him to describe the changes he noticed, and each time he did, I reminded him that I was doing this for him. 

Always and only for him.

I took his hands, those strong, work-roughened hands that handle my flesh with such gentle reverence, and led them to my breasts so he could explore  that clothed swell, gauging their firmness, their fullness, with his  fingertips before cupping them and supporting the weight of them in his palms. I covered his hands with mine, and felt the trembling flex of his fingers as they plied and pressed against my bosom.

We were both flushed. Our hearts were  pounding in time, and when S was finally able to find his voice, his words were soft, hushed.

"They're so heavy."

"They're full," I replied. "They're full of the milk I made for you. And now they need to be emptied so you can be filled."

Our bed was waiting, warm and inviting, and he came to me, very much like a man who had been starving, and I eagerly gave him the one thing that would sate his desire.

That first latch was amazing.

Last night I was able to feed my husband's physical and emotional hunger from the breasts that had prepared such a feast over the course of one week.

It was glorious!

And when he had fed from each breast and had been lavished with caresses and kisses  and whispered words of love throughout the entirety of our nursing session, he allowed his mouth to slip from my breast, and he thanked me  for what I had given him.

But the pleasure was mine.

To be the woman who is blessed to nurture and nourish this gracious and loving man is a gift beyond compare.

He completes me.

Without S, I am only half of a person.

When he had nursed, I allowed him to drift off to sleep, and it was beautiful to lie next to him, feeling his warmth, his strong presence, and listen to the slow and steady rhythm of his breathing. A physical joining will come soon, and it will be wonderful, but last night, we shared an emotional and spiritual joining that connected our hearts and fulfilled us in a way that even lovemaking cannot.

Everyone is beginning to stir. The house will soon be as full as my heart is right now.

The children will be eager to see their father, and I will be forced to share him with three little people who have missed his presence and affection. We will take on our roles as parents once more because Dad is home, and our family is complete.

But, just as it was last night, tonight will belong only to us.

And it will be magical!

Missed our Morning Feeding

S and I have been able to incorporate morning nursing sessions (along with our nightly nursing) into our daily life, and the feedings have been a wonderful way to start our day. Both of us feel relaxed and rejuvenated and ready to face the challenges of work and motherhood. It has become routine that when the alarm goes off, I roll over in our comfy, sleep-warm bed and find him waiting for what he teasingly calls "pre-breakfast".

Until this morning.

Our alarm did not go off. Which meant he overslept. Which meant he was going to be late for work. Which meant he missed his morning feeding.

Uh-oh.

The Adult Nursing Relationship is a beautifully complex thing; once you have begun a scheduled nursing routine, it is incredibly difficult (both emotionally and physically) when a feeding is missed. Now that I am in the process of re-lactating, I have reached the stage in the process where I become uncomfortable if I am not able to nurse. I actually NEED it.

My breasts are protesting.

I have experienced the familiar tingling prickles of the let-down reflex and the fullness that tells me that my breasts "need" to be emptied.

Manual expression it is...until tonight.

I think the emotional need is even greater. For both of us.

S just left me a text message that read:

Missing you and our time together this morning

So I know that his need to be nursed is as strong as my need to be nursed FROM.

My advice to women who are involved in a loving ANR where feedings are carefully planned and scheduled?

Do NOT miss a feeding (unless absolutely necessary). Stay committed to your routine and focused on your feeding schedule.

Your boobs will thank you for it!