An Ode to a CLOG
I thought I was past clogged ducts. I was painfully wrong
Just when I thought
I was past clogged ducts,
I got a different kind.
Because of course I did.
Yes — there’s another one.
A behind-the-nipple one.
A hiding-in-plain-sight one.
A blister-instead-of-milk-bleb one.
A surprise-you’re-not-done-here one.
A burst-open-and-scab-at-the-nipple one.
A looks-like-healing-but-feels-like-punishment one.
A resolves-in-stages-and-relief-is-not-instant one.
Oh ice pack, my old friend.
We meet again.
Pressed awkwardly into my bra
like a truce I didn’t ask for.
Oh ibuprofen, my trusted companion —
small white promise,
taken with hope and a glass of water
while whispering,
please work faster than this.
Will you grant me sweet relief?
Or just take the edge off enough
that I can survive the next latch?
Gentle latch.
Calm feeds.
Deep breaths I forget to take.
Because when the baby opens their mouth
and finds the nipple,
I grit my teeth.
Jaw tight.
Shoulders stiff.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth
to trap the scream
that wants to tear out of me —
raw and animal and utterly unhelpful.
So I count.
One.
Two.
Three.
I remind myself:
This is temporary.
This is love.
This is milk, not glass.
Even though my body disagrees.
The pain spikes.
Then dulls.
Then lingers.
Like a bad guest who says,
“I’ll just stay a minute.”
Who will tell the baby
that his hunger arrives
wrapped in my endurance?
That his comfort
costs me this particular ache?
I push through.
Because the baby is eating.
Because the baby is calm.
Because the baby does not care
about my inner monologue.
And I would still choose this.
Even while muttering
what the actual fuck
into the quiet room.
Hmmm.
If you’d like to fund future ibuprofen and iced compresses: