Shirt off and stretchy cotton bra pulled to the side, I pieced together the breast pump and started hand pumping. Nothing happened besides my nipple feeling like it was going to rip off my breast. I tried again and still nothing. I chucked the hand pump into the trash and got back to work—hand expressing. It's inevitable that milk squirts everywhere when you hand express. Especially when you're breasts are beyond full and your body is eager to relieve the pressure. It took over half an hour to thoroughly relieve the pressure. My hands were tired and my breasts were sore. Another ten minutes to clean up the breastmilk battlefield.

It’s been more than three months since my son weaned himself off breastfeeding. Or “milkies” as we call it. He had been losing interest, which was surprising to me since milkies were his favorite thing since his first hours out of the womb. But over the summer, he stopped asking for it at the usual times. I’d either offer it and he’d squeal as if he was being given a surprise present. Or I wouldn’t mention it and he’d remember hours later, ravenous as if he was coming out of a fast. He’d scramble towards me, legs and arms in all directions — “MILKIES.”

My son's second birthday was a couple of weeks ago and I found myself thinking a lot about our birthing experience. Both the joyful and the painful and scary moments. He was born with an emergency cesarean section after 20+ hours of intense labor (a story for another time). And while that can be upsetting for me to dwell on, the experience of giving birth to my son has truly shaped my identity now. I don't want to forget what made me who I am today.

Most of the details of my labor are blurred to me. It's hard to stay lucid when you’re in deep pain or under anesthesia. But the hours and days after his birth are still quite clear. My cesarean scar brings a lot of those memories back for me every time I look at it or touch it. And for that, I'm somewhat grateful for its visibility.