My Year of Midnight Snacking By Connie Millard

Mike Maguire CC



My Year of Midnight Snacking

When the ache in my breasts gnaws me awake before the alarm has its chance, I thump downstairs to the pump nestled in the couch’s fraying crook and flip on its switch, a discordant whir disturbing the midnight quiet as I sit alone in the dark, the machine sucking the milk from of me, leaving an insatiable hunger in its wake, a deep, rumbling growl erupting from the hollow of my belly, a constant need to snack, to replenish the life I give up for the downy head that I brush hurried goodbye kisses on before the sun has risen and who my husband vicariously nurses as I drive my car, ride a bus, take a subway, and trek six blocks to an office, a sleep-deprived zombie who grazes on nutritious but respectable enough snacks to convince my colleagues (whose eyes unsubtly flit to my waistline) that I incorporate a rainbow of nutrients into my baby’s diet so I can use my lunch break to skip the cafeteria and pump in a suffocating closet, filling milk into baggies, until I can get home, scarf a bland, unrewarding dinner that doesn’t satiate the cavernous appetite roiling within but is enough so I can doze for a few hours until the ache in my breasts gnaws me awake before the alarm has its chance, and I thump downstairs to the pump, but this time first turning to the kitchen to grab armful of saccharin snacks, the ones with artificial filling, tearing the crinkling cellophane so my tongue can probe at its insides, tingling at the sweetness I deprive it during the daylight hours, the blatantly manufactured - yet so satisfying - creaminess with its hints of vanilla and marshmallow undercutting with the grainy taste of oatmeal, the tangy sponge cake, and bitter dark chocolate shell that I relish, savoring the tiny morsels alone on the couch with the whirring and the dark and my thoughts in a moonlit ritual of gorging and purging as I pour milk in more plastic baggies, lining them uniformly in the refrigerator until I finally crawl back to bed, empty and full.

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Connie Millard is a working mom of three who once made it to final callbacks for the television show, Worst Cooks in America. After much perseverance, she now spends her time writing in between stirring risotto. She has an MFA from Lindenwood University and is an Associate Editor for the literary journal, Ran Off with the Star Bassoon. She is Pushcart Prize nominee whose work has appeared in, Ghost Parachute, Dark Recesses Press and Bending Genres, among others. You can find her at conniemillardwriter.com.

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