At least for now. I typed that title and then knocked on wood for ten minutes before continuing.
I totally owe you guys a humongous thank you. A thank you as big as the knockers that are currently dominating my chest.
You may remember I wrote a couple things outlining my discomfort with breastfeeding:
Not Breastfeeding Is Fine (Which I initially called It’s A Hard Knocker Life and then changed to Breast Ain’t Necessarily Best but even that title was changed by an editor. I still think either of my titles has more pizazz but editors and their predilection for proper grammar… what’re-ya-gonna-do?)
After writing how uncomfortable I was with breastfeeding you can imagine the slew of comments I received. I got called a reptile (because reptiles don’t breastfeed like mammals), less maternal and, yes, someone shouted at me in all caps that BREAST IS BEST!
The whole breastfeeding debate just made me irate. Get the hell out of here with your backseat mothering! If I don’t want to breastfeed I don’t have to explain why to you. But let us not trounce down that path, we’ve done that before. What I do want to say today is this: I am a milky, breastfeeding mofo. But I did it for me, not the lady who yelled at me that BREAST IS BEST. Okay, so maybe she, and the woman who called me a reptile, pissed me off and ultimately lit a fire deep within in my milky bosom that I am maternal, dammit! Just watch me and my milkers go!! Which is totally the problem in the first place: women shaming and guilting other women into doing something they’re uncomfortable with. But, for the most part, all the breastfeeding talk kind of desensitized me to the whole Whipping Out The Boob And Letting Another Human Suck On It thing.
So I am a boob whipping out mofo. In private, anyway. Seriously! The last time my boobs were this sucked on and pawed at was my first year of college!
Another thing! I did the whole thing wrong the first time. What I did was feed Violet, who would go for maybe ten minutes on one side, and then I’d pump until both boobs were empty. Which any breastfeeder worth the “liquid gold” in her bountiful bosom knows will only create more milk. Too much milk! We could’ve used all the milk I pumped and stored for Serge’s cereal and coffee every morning and not run out. As a result, I spent that whole month I breastfed with Violet feeling like my leaky, boobs were constantly engorged. (Sorry, Serge, it’s the proper term. My husband hates the word engorged. Says it’s what bulls do to people. I said, no, that’s goring , which I could totally do to someone with these nipples… Still, he hates the term.)
Ironically, it was Serge who said I shouldn’t empty the boob when pumping. I should just pump out an ounce or so, enough to relieve the pressure. I did that the first week and now my boobs have deflated back to what they were while I was pregnant. Which is still huge, but not engorged (sorry, Serge!) huge. They aren’t really leaky and, overall, everything is going well!
I still don’t feel comfortable breastfeeding in front of anyone who isn’t Serge, Violet or Henry. I mean, even Violet looks at me strangely when I whip the boob out. Like, put those things away, mama, you could poke someone’s eye out!
But while I’m somewhat comfortable with the whole breastfeeding scenario I am still not going to pose for photographs such as this because, well, because that’s just – I don’t know – what is that?