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Mojitos and “Mommy Milk”: When Friendship and Travel Meet Motherhood
I’m not mourning my old life; I’m merely coming face-to-face with what might have been if I hadn’t experienced an unintended pregnancy.
All eyes in the enormous, bustling foyer of New York’s Museum of Modern Art are burning the back of my head with judgmental stares. My defiantly exhausted 2-year-old son is mightily shrieking and flailing in protest as I try desperately to put his coat, hat, and gloves on him before we head back out into the bitter January wind. I feel hopelessly out of place, apparently the only breeder for miles — at least the only one stupid enough to bring her preschool offspring to an art museum. My husband is off waiting in the long coat-check line. Next to me, my old college roommate stands helpless: dumbfounded by the sheer volume and duration of the noise emanating from my tourism-weary toddler.
We had rushed through the museum because, despite my insistent, continual suggestion to lie back and nap in his stroller, my son instead chose to whine, run in erratic zig-zags among the crowds, attempt to touch paintings, and repeatedly demand mommy milks. Visiting MoMA was something I’d wanted to do on my myriad trips to New York, an intention always thwarted for one reason or another — running out of time; it being Monday; traveling with friends disinterested in modern art — now that…
