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So when I went to the doctor a few weeks ago, she was going to give me an order for a mammogram–just a baseline mammogram, my first–because I am high-risk and should have gotten one a couple years ago. She said, “You haven’t been breastfeeding in the last twelve months, have you?”
“Well, technically,” I said, “I’m still breastfeeding.”
I swear the woman rolled her eyes–which is fine, I mean, I could tell she was trying not to, and my lifestyle was seriously impinging on her preventative care paradigm, as it’s no use getting a mammogram while your mammaries are full of milk. I assured her I was trying to quit, that I was very close, in fact, that surely within the month I would be done altogether. “How often does she nurse these days?” she asked.
“Only once or twice a day.”
I swear, at the time it was not a lie. That week she really was only nursing once or twice a day. But to continue, the doctor said that if it was that little, I should only have to wait three or four months after weaning before I could get a mammogram. But I really needed to get one because I was high risk and overdue. I said I was so very sure I was going to be done any day now because I was ready and I was pretty sure the baby was ready, or rather, getting ready–she should really be ready any day now. Any day now I was going to stop nursing her and she was going to be fine with it. It had to happen.
“Yes,” the doctor said, “but it’s a lot harder to do when they get older.”
Okay, fine. Tell me about it, lady. It’s a month later and not only is she not all done, she has gone back to nursing three or four times a day, and is it just me, or have her teeth gotten sharper? Ouch. Yes, she is nursing right now. Why do you ask?
I really want to wean her. I have things to do. A vacation with my husband to go on, a mammogram to get, a decent bra to wear–seriously, I am nothing if not highly motivated. So why isn’t it happening?
Because I’m weak and she’s evil, that’s why!
Oh, what a world, what a world. I have a confession to make: I used to say to myself on a regular basis that I would never breastfeed a child beyond eighteen months. I couldn’t even imagine doing such a thing. My first two children weaned themselves at fifteen months and seventeen months respectively, and they were so independent after that, I couldn’t see nursing them then even if I wanted to (which I didn’t). Then I had Elvis, and for a while I thought he might be my last baby because…oy. So I kept nursing him because he kept wanting to nurse, and when I actually got pregnant again, I was still nursing him because he still wanted to nurse–until it became clear that I had to wean him or die. When you know your life is on the line, you can do amazing things. Also, my mother-in-law happened to be visiting at the time, so ran interference for me a lot. I wish my mother-in-law was here right now. Instead, my husband is going out of town for four days. Oh, snap!
So I’ve been prenant or nursing for the last five and a half years. IT MUST END. I’m not interested in getting pregnant again (no offense, honey), and my mother-in-law isn’t due for another visit until May, when she comes to watch the kids while Sugar Daddy and I gallavant across state lines–and my baby has no intention of giving up her human pacifier any time soon, so…what? What can I do? I must use strategy. I just gave her a sippy cup filled with chocolate milk, and she didn’t even ask for chocolate milk. That goes against every principle I have as a parent! Okay, not really. It really only goes against one principle, which is Don’t Raise The Bar–but in this case I think we can make an exception. Except that she doesn’t want any chocolate milk! Whoever heard of a kid not wanting chocolate milk? It’s Misfits of Science hour at the Madhousehold! What am I supposed to do now? What? What???
So the other night I went shopping for a new swimsuit because I couldn’t find any of mine, not even the maternity ones (which hopefully don’t fit anymore). They are probably all buried deep within the bowels of my closet. No matter. I knew I could find a swimsuit for cheap in July. Whether I could find one that wasn’t ugly was another question. So I went to ye neighborhood department store and looked in their swimwear section, which as you might imagine–this being July and all–was very teeny-tiny indeed. They had a reasonably good selection of bikinis. Unfortunately, “bikini” is not in my fashion vocabulary, which meant that I was stuck with whatever leftovers they had for women with poor body images. Them were slim pickins indeed. Actually, there was nothing “slim,” exactly, in the selection. Not that I’m some Nicole Richie or Whatever-Olsen-Twin-Has-The-Eating-Disorder, but I am not quite large enough to fit into most of the sizes that were still available. I suppose the vast majority of women in my size do their swimsuit shopping in February, when the retail industry tells them to. I think they only make these ugly swimsuits so that there will be something still in the stores when the weather is such that people actually go swimming. But that’s just a theory.
Let me tell you what kind of bathing suits you can find in July: black suits with giant floral prints and–yeah, that about covers it. Black suits with giant floral prints. And if your suit happens to be black with a giant floral print, please don’t be offended. I’m sure yours is lovely and flatters your figure perfectly. But what if you don’t want a black suit with a giant floral print? Well, you can just go to hell, that’s what you can do. Unless this one suit that isn’t black with a giant floral print just happens to be in your size or the next size up, but oh, no, sorry, it’s four sizes too large. Next summer eat more doughnuts, dearie.
Actually, I was fortunate enough to find four suits in my size (or thereabouts), three of which were blue and one of which was not floral. I tried on one of those tankinis, which look so attractive on other people, but I’ve noticed in the dressing room that they tend to draw attention to a part of my body I’d rather people didn’t focus on. You know, when I see other people wearing those tankinis, I’m sure I don’t find my eyes irresistably drawn to their midriffs, and yet when I try on a tankini, all I can see is my midriff. So in theory I could wear a tankini and not make everyone around me grimace, but realitically speaking, I obviously lack the confidence to carry off such an outfit. So no tankini for moi. As for the other three suits, one was navy blue and rather plain–or rather, it was plain. It was a navy blue suit. Astonishingly minimalist for July swimwear, but then again, there was only one of them. The other two suits were various shades of blue, (mostly) inoffensive floral designs. Not my dream suit, but wouldn’t kill me to wear. While the colors were more flattering to my skin tone, I noticed that the cut was entirely wrong for my body type. To wit, it accentuated–if such a thing is possible in this context–the fact that I am mere centimeters away from having no breasts. So the navy blue suit it was.
But that episode reminded me that I really need to buy a new nursing bra, if only so I can finally wean the baby. It usually takes a significant outlay of money for me to make the leap from one phase of life to another. But that’s a side issue. As of right now, the baby is not weaning, and I only have one nursing bra that fits.
//ATTENTION: THIS IS THE PORTION OF THE BLOG THAT YOU DON’T READ, IF YOU DON’T ENJOY READING ABOUT WOMEN’S BRA-SHOPPING EXPERIENCES. ACTUALLY, IF YOU DO USUALLY ENJOY SUCH THINGS, I’M REASONABLY CERTAIN THAT THIS WILL DISAPPOINT YOU. CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED.//
Most nursing mothers have large breasts. I am one of about three women in the world, near as I can figure, who wears a B cup while nursing, and I only fill it out the first six months. Once the baby starts eating solid food and nursing a little less, the nursing bra gets significantly roomier. If they made nursing bras in A cups, that’s what I’d wear right now. Only they don’t, so instead I wear bras that are too big for me, which can result in unsightly bunches of excess material under my outerwear. I don’t know if you followed that. Maybe you’d rather not.
A few months ago I found a nursing bra by Liz Lange at Target that was perfect for me. It’s made out of stretchy (I think that’s the technical term) fabric, so women who are on the buxomer side of B will fill it out better, but women such as myself, who are on the “lighter” side of B, do not have this voluminous cup for their diminutive breast to swim in. And the nursing flaps open to the side, rather than top-down. I hate the top-down flaps. They make for even more of the unsightly bunchy extra stuff that I don’t need. Unfortunately, they only had one of these Liz Lange bras in stock when I was there, so that is the one I have. Target has since stopped carrying Liz Lange maternity and nursing bras, I think. They certainly haven’t gotten any more of that particular style, and certainly not in a B cup. I’ve looked online for similar nursing bras, but I haven’t found anything I like. I certainly haven’t found it for $12, which is about what I feel like investing in a nursing bra right now.
But one bra that fits is really not enough. I mean, it would be nice to wear one bra that fits while I’m washing the other one. I know, I’m such a fat, spoiled American. Anyway, so after the swimsuit selection, I went to the lingerie section to look for nursing bras, or alternatively, some bra that might be compatible with nursing. I was not successful in that pursuit. It reminded me, though, that I have even less to look forward to once I wean the baby and my anemic B-cup chest dwindles to a double-A again. You might be wondering why a woman of my particular endowments needs to bother with a bra at all. Well, let’s just say I’m old-fashioned. It’s a psychological thing. If I never wore a bra, how would I know when I wasn’t fit to be seen in public? Not that I’m fit now, but as long as I’m wearing a bra, I can pretend.
Mister Bubby has just informed me that Elvis is eating ice cream out of the carton. With his hands. So I must adieu. ‘Til next time, my friends.
Today I breastfed my baby in the Hooters’ parking lot. That was cool.
Princess Zurg studies child nutrition
Princess Zurg: When did I start drinking water?
Giraffemom: When you were Girlfriend’s age, I guess. But you didn’t like it very much.
PZ: Why didn’t I like it?
GM: Because water doesn’t taste like anything.
PZ: Breastmilk doesn’t taste like anything, does it?
GM: Sure, it does. Breastmilk is tasty.
PZ: It is? How do you know?
GM: Because I’ve tasted it.
PZ: [Confused silence]
GM: I didn’t nurse from myself–some spilled on my hands and I licked it off. It’s kind of sweet. It’s pretty yummy.
PZ: Can I try it?
GM: Eh, maybe.
PZ: Can I nurse from you?
GM: No.
PZ (giggling): Why not?
GM: Because nursing is for babies, not big kids.
PZ: Why don’t big kids nurse?
GM: Because you need to eat other foods.
PZ: Is breast milk bad for you?
GM: No, it just wouldn’t do big kids much good. It has everything babies need, though.
PZ: Does it have their clothes?
GM (thinking her daughter gets more like her husband every day): It has all the food stuff babies need. It doesn’t have their clothes or their cribs
PZ (laughing): What else doesn’t it have?
GM: Doesn’t have their diapers.
PZ (laughing uproariously): What else?
GM: Doesn’t have their car seats or their onesies or their Desitin.
PZ (so beside herself with mirth that she can barely speak): You’re…cracking me…up!
Princess Zurg on the Wall of Separation
PZ: Will Mister Bubby like [local elementary school where he's registered for kindergarten in the fall]?
GM: I hope so. Kindergarten is different from pre-school.
PZ: It will be really different for Mister Bubby because it’s not a religious school, and he’s used to a religious school.
GM: That’s true.
PZ: But what if he raises his hand and starts talking about religious stuff?
GM: I don’t think he’ll do that.
Mister Bubby: Can I raise my hand and talk about religious stuff?
GM: Is that what you’d like to do in kindergarten? Raise your hand and talk about religious stuff?
MB: Yeah.
GM: What will you say?
MB: Um…I’ll say, “Jesus really lived again.”
PZ: But what if the teacher laughs at him?
GM: Oh, I don’t think she’ll do that.
Now my children can’t find the infamous video of Harold and the Purple Crayon. I swear I never touched it!
!!!SHAMELESS PLUG!!!
Sugar Daddy is talking about an evolution on his site. On his site he’s talking about it. The site itself hasn’t evolved much from the day it came into its existence. You’ll have to wait millions of years for that to happen.
My friend was telling me about her sister, who just had a baby–after 49 hours of labor and no meds. I say she wins the prize. I don’t know what prize, but she’s got it, whatever it is. The poor woman had to push for three hours because her son had A FOURTEEN-INCH HEAD! Do you know what a 14-inch head looks like on a baby? Forget what it looks like. Imagine what it feels like to push a 14-inch head out of a 3-inch–oh, never mind. I’m sorry, I’m still reeling. Fourteen-inch head and 49 hours. The longest labor I ever had was ten hours, and if I’d gone two minutes more I would have asked someone to kill me, if I wasn’t already dead.
Anyway, now she’s trying to recover from that ordeal, and the hospital staff is giving her a hard time about breastfeeding. I don’t consider myself some hard-core lactivist, but it really frosts my cookies when hospitals claim they’re pro-breastfeeding and encourage breastfeeding, but only as long as there are no problems. In this case, the baby wasn’t latching on. Well, duh, if I’d just spent three hours in a birth canal, I wouldn’t be that hungry either. But instead of taking this in stride, they’re making the mother pump colostrum, and they’re supplementing him with formula. Well, that should teach him how to latch on, shouldn’t it? Argh!
When you consider that a woman’s milk doesn’t even come in until the third or fourth post-partum day, I don’t know why they’re so insistent on supplementing with formula so quickly. The same thing happened to me at the hospital where I had Princess Zurg. Fortunately, the doctor who delivered her told me, as they were wheeling me to the recovery room, that I shouldn’t worry about the fact that she hadn’t latched on yet because a) she was tired, b) she wasn’t hungry yet, and c) she wasn’t going to starve in the first few hours after birth because she was still living off the nutrients she got in utero. That was the only thing that gave me the courage to stand up to those nurses who told me my baby was going to get dehydrated and jaundiced if I didn’t give her a bottle. (For the record, there was no lactation counselor at this hospital–just several unsympathetic nurses who kept popping in and saying, “Are you still trying to breastfeed?” Grrrr….)
I sound bitter, but I’m really not. I just wonder how these people think the human race managed to survive before there were medical personnel micro-managing babies’ diets.
Talking of which, I have a baby to feed. Ciao.
NEWS WHILE NURSING
I was disappointed with the cover of this week’s Newsweek. I mean, it’s good, but it could have been better. I’m surprised they didn’t do like Time did with O.J. and darken the image to make Cheney look more sinister. Anyway, to make up for Newsweek’s bungling, I’ll give you the link to the REAL story behind the story:
One way in which formula is better than breastmilk
I don’t cry when I pour formula down the drain.
Field Trip Update
So the whole is often greater than the sum of its parts, which explains why yesterday’s field trip to the playground pizzeria was an overall success. The first 30 minutes were fairly painful, since they were taken up with the tour–which might have been edifying if you were one of the six children in the very front of the (very large) group, but if you were bringing up the rear like me and my boys, you often found yourselves stopped for several minutes in front of things that were not remotely related to what the tour guide was talking about. In our case, we stopped by many, many doors. Every time the group stopped, the people in front were looking at something cool, and those of us in the back were by a door. Yes, the dreaded door, which Elvis proceeded to go in and out of. First he went in and out of the door leading outside to the dumpsters. At our next stop he went in and out of the door leading to the stockroom. At our last stop he went for one of the many oven doors, but I was able to thwart him. No Elvis pizza was made that day.
And no one threw up, even when hit by the full-frontal olfactory assault of the playground area. Actually, once I got acclimated to the smell, I had a very relaxing morning watching the boys run around like ninnies along with all the other kids, and me just sitting on my fat, tired butt all the while. Eventually, of course, Elvis discovered the door leading out of the play area. Which he proceeded to go in and out of. If I were a hyper-responsible individual I would have tried to stop him and insisted on taking everyone home when he refused, but of course I’m not that person. I knew all he wanted to do was open and close the door, which had a window, so I could see that he never left the immediate area right in front of the door–it was literally go out, peek in, come back in, go back out for about 20 minutes straight, and then he was over it and went on the slide. I got a lot more rest that way, plus I think it helped a little with the ventilation of the room.
There was much exchanging of Purell afterwards, but a good time was had by all.
And now for something completely different
So I had my tap class again last night, and renewed my discovery of the fact that I have very weak ankles. And am extremely right-footed. You should have seen me trying to do toe clips with my left foot last night. That was humor at its highest, I assure you. Your loss.
I highly recommend the movie Sugar Daddy and I saw this weekend, End of the Spear. If any of you have seen this movie, I'd like to know what you thought of it.
In other news, I've made two discoveries this week:
1) My waist has returned. In a sense, anyway. I mean, you can discern a waist on me again, though it's not the waist I had pre-baby. Actually, what I think has happened is that the fat that was filling out my waist before has simply migrated to my hips. Gone south for the winter, as it were. Still, I'm glad to have a waist again, even if it isn't the one I know and love. Since I am still in the early weeks of nursing, this means I have an hourglass figure for perhaps the first time in my life. Bad news is it's kind of a funky-looking hourglass, but hey, these are the days of our lives.
2) I can wear my old jeans again. I just don't want to. And I suspect no one else wants me to either. When even my husband is encouraging me to put my maternity pants back on, I know I'm going to have to actually do my Denise Austin Bounce Back After Baby Workout instead of just, you know, thinking about it.
Which brings me to my current dilemma: Do I buy SD a Playstation so I can get back in shape via Dance Dance Revolution? Hmmmm. (SD kicks my butt at this, by the way. When it comes to video games, he is nothing if not a Renaissance Man.)
SD: I was serious when I said if I get a raise this year, I'm buying myself an iPod.
Mad: That's fine.
SD: You can have two or three hundred dollars to buy something equally frivolous for yourself.
Mad: I'll just save mine and invest it.
SD: Invest this, chump.
"If you don't have a baby in your belly anymore, why is it so big?"–Princess Zurg
Princess Zurg should be the expert on my belly. When the baby was still a good excuse for my expanded girth, she used to come up and kiss my belly and tell the baby inside that she loved it. She's still doing that. "The baby's not in there anymore," I say. "I know," she says. "I'm kissing the eggs."
So I still haven't come up with a Xanga alias for The Baby. For now The Baby will just have to be The Baby. (It does remind me of the Veggie Tales movie "Babysitter in De-Nile," when the Hebrews are trying to keep baby Moses' gender a secret from the Egyptians, and everyone keeps saying, "Isn't the baby adorable?" "Such a strong-looking…baby." It's funnier when vegetables say it.) She has not yet asserted her personality enough to give her a more suitable name. In those first several days of nursing her, I did consider "Razorgum" and "Nipple Killer," but ultimately decided against saddling her with that characterization for the rest of her life. That last one seems a little too Native American for a white Mormon baby, her 1/16 Cherokee blood notwithstanding.
Incidentally, a good way to guarantee that you will have breastfeeding issues is to arrogantly assume that since you've previously nursed three children for a combined total of fifty-six months, you couldn't possibly run into trouble the fourth time around. Disregard the possibility that the womanly art of breastfeeding has changed drastically in the seven months since you last gave suck, and be shocked and humiliated when the lactation counselors inform you that you are indeed doing it all wrong. Fortunately motherhood has not aged me so much that I'm incapable of learning new technologies, but it's taking an awfully long time for the injured parties to recover, if you catch my meaning. (If you don't catch my meaning, never mind. You don't really want to know.)
Sugar Daddy votes for calling her Bradshaw, due to her striking resemblance to Terry Bradshaw. Personally, I think she looks more like the actor Terry O'Quinn. It's the hairdo, mostly, but not entirely. Sometimes the likeness in both look and manner is so uncanny that it's downright creepy. I've also noticed, however, that from the left she looks a bit more like Patrick Stewart. Which is equally creepy–especially when your husband accuses you of having some "thing" about bald guys. Which I don't. (Shut up.)
Of course, you shouldn't infer from this that my daughter is anything but the most stunning beauty in the nursery. What have you got against Terry Bradshaw, anyway?
The good news is that I find myself far more relaxed this time around than the previous three. Largely because I've finally accepted the reality that children, even newborns, have free will, and none of them is that proverbial tabula rasa just waiting for me to screw him or her up with whatever egregious parenting error I might at one moment or another. Also, this baby (i.e., The Baby) has her own room–the first in her family who doesn't have to bunk with Mom and Dad for the first several months of her life. That does wonders for a parent's nerves. Unfortunately this little chunk of serenity has not stopped me from hearing Phantom Baby Cries every time I put her down for a nap and walk away. I hear the shower, the washing machine agitator, the fan over the stove, and I'm convinced that there's a baby screaming in there somewhere, but it isn't always the case. However, the hum of the computer has not muffled the Actual Baby Cry that is currently telling me to get my fat, unpregnant rear end off the internet and feed her already. I'll see you cats later.
I don’t ordinarily consider myself an Angry Breastfeeder. I’m pretty indifferent to how most of the world chooses to feed their babies–unless they’re giving them Coca-Cola in their bottles–and I just go about my merry way nursing when and where I choose and not getting too bent out of shape about anything but infants with very sharp gums. And mostly I just shrug my shoulders at people who are offended by public breastfeeding because I’m not about to tell people what they should or shouldn’t be offended by. I see (and hear) a lot in public that offends me, but I don’t go running to the authorities to see what can be done about it, unless it threatens my or other people’s safety. I pretty much expect anyone offended by something I may do to wrinkle their noses or make nasty comments behind my back the way any civilized person would.
I suppose what this really means is that I’m apathetic and cynical. To which I say, eh.
What I don’t like is the suggestion that breastfeeding is a less valid or respectable form of nourishing an infant than is bottle-feeding. Bottle-feeding, in my view, is a perfectly acceptable way to feed a baby, and many people are more comfortable doing it and/or seeing it in public, which is totally understandable. However, that doesn’t change one simple fact of life, which is that breasts make milk, and that milk is specifically designed for feeding babies–not fertilizing vegetable gardens or making cheese or sitting around until it sours and dries up. If breast milk grosses you out, my advice is don’t drink it. (With all due respect to The Grapes of Wrath, it really wouldn’t do you that much good anyway. It’s for babies, you see. Like I was saying.)
I am not going to argue that people have no right to be disgusted by some woman stripping to the waist, ostensibly so she can feed her baby. Obviously, that’s gratuitous. I’m reminded of the time this woman came into our nursing lounge at church and, not having planned her wardrobe to accommodate a nursing baby that morning, proceeded to take off her dress and nurse her baby in her undergarments. Completely inappropriate, really, even in this semi-private setting. I can also remember the time my husband and I were in an insurance broker’s office and this woman at a neighboring broker’s desk revealed her naked breast so she could nurse her baby. That was slightly unsettling as well, because as you should all know by now, most nursing mothers don’t strip to their underwear or draw undue attention to their nipples when they go to feed their babies. Also, there’s the simple fact that women with attractive breasts don’t usually show them off for free. It’s Al Rantel’s old adage, “The last people you want to see naked are always the first to take their clothes off in public.” Any “gratuitous boobage,” as I think Anothermad puts it, is usually exhibited by someone who really, really ought to keep themselves covered at all times. So of course you feel traumatized. Who can blame you?
What I don’t buy as traumatizing is the sight of a woman discreetly breastfeeding her baby, whether she’s using a blanket or a nursing shawl or the size of her baby’s head to shield her breast from curious onlookers. If you stare long and hard enough, and get really close, yes, you might eventually see something shocking. But that would be your fault.
My husband’s grandmother, who is a lovely woman, once had a conversation with me about public breastfeeding, which she was against. Even when a woman covered up, she said, you could still have curious kids staring and saying, “What’s that lady doing under that blanket?” Well. I’ve nursed in front of lots of kids not my own, including children who were not raised in breastfeeding homes and had absolutely no idea what was going on. Yes, some of them were curious to the point of asking their mommies, “What’s she doing?” To which the mommies–including the ones who exclusively bottle-fed all their children–replied, without a touch of awkwardness, “She’s feeding the baby. See, babies can drink from bottles, but they can also drink from their mothers, because their mothers’ bodies can make milk.” To which the children said, “Oh.” Then everyone went back to playing Legos or eating crackers. No harm, no foul.
The thing is, yes, one could theoretically feed her baby with a bottle when she was in public so as not to offend anyone, but she shouldn’t have to when she doesn’t need to. Because breasts make milk, and that milk is specifically designed to feed babies. Feeding babies is a perfectly legitimate usage of breasts, even in a public setting. (Of course, certain public settings call for more discretion than others. Most people don’t enjoy making spectacles of themselves at a funeral or on the dais at a President’s swearing-in.) This attitude that if you’re all fired up about feeding your baby breast milk, you should just be sure to pump some milk for public outings–well, it seems reasonable enough except that
a) not every baby will take a bottle;
b) not every woman can express milk with a pump; and
c) a mother doesn’t freaking have to feed her baby with a bottle if she doesn’t want to! She’s got breasts!
That’s all.
If you, like Barbara Walters, are uncomfortable with women breastfeeding in public, you know what? That's okay. We're all uncomfortable with something. I'm uncomfortable when people let their toothless toddlers walk around chomping on graham crackers in public. I'm uncomfortable when people eat Cheerios in front of me. I'm uncomfortable when people say "myself" when they really mean "me." I'm uncomfortable when people discipline their children in public. I'm uncomfortable when people talk about politics in church. Am I right while everyone else is wrong? Well, duh, of course I am. But none of these issues is anything like another of them.
I understand why people are uncomfortable with public breastfeeding. It doesn't upset me that they're uncomfortable, even though I think they might want to mind their own business, just as I do when the girl standing in line in front of me is wearing jeans that remind me of that old SNL sketch with Dan Aykroyd as the repair guy. When people tell stories about women who just take their shirts off in the middle of restaurants so they can feed their babies, I can understand why that would make someone uncomfortable. I do think that if you're not experienced enough at breastfeeding to do it without disrobing, you probably need to practice more at home before you take the baby out anywhere. I have never actually seen this phenomenon for myself, so I won't comment further, except to acknowledge that nursing mothers do tend to think of their breasts as being a lot less sacred and holy after they've been used as a milk bar. A friend of mine once said that after nursing four children, she was pretty sure that if a stranger came up to her on the street and grabbed her breast, she'd respond with, "Yeah? And what do you want?"
Still, there are some analogies that anti-public breastfeeding folks use that just annoy the hell out of me. Hence this blog.
Why Breastfeeding is not like urination
1) Which would you rather drink from–a bottle that once held human breastmilk, or a toilet? Both cleaned and sterilized, of course. I'll give you a few minutes to decide.
2) Who would you rather have serving you food–a woman with a nursing baby on one arm, or a person holding a specimin cup while he/she is filling it?
3) When was the last time someone walked past a spot where a woman had just breastfed her baby and asked, "What is that godawful smell?"
Why Breastfeeding is not like sexual intercourse
Scenario #1: Imagine your spouse or significant other comes home one day and says, "Honey, I've solved our contraception dilemma. From now on we will not have any more sex, we will just have breastfeeding. I mean, it's practically the same thing, only with antibodies. Everyone wins!" How do you respond?
Scenario #2: Oh, never mind.
Well, there it is, my rant for the day. And look, it's fine with me if you still don't like public breastfeeding. I won't stage a nurse-in in front of your home or place of business. Just don't tell me I may as well pee on you. That makes me think you're kind of nuts.
Still alive. Still pregnant. Trying very hard not to nurse anyone but myself.
Don’t think too hard about that last one.
Sugar Daddy and visiting mother-in-law have taken the boys downtown this morning, and I am blissfully alone to be sick in peace. I spent most of Saturday in bed–ah, bed, how I love thee–but ventured out for church yesterday because, um, I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t want SD to think I was using this pregnancy thing as an excuse to go all apostate on him. Anyway, it was all right. It helps to have an extra adult in the pew. I was wondering, though, if it’s a sin to throw up the sacrament bread. I’m hoping not.
For the record, since many of you asked, no, there is no reason I think Elvis shouldn’t stop breastfeeding. I’ve actually been meaning to wean him for about four months now. My other two kids weaned themselves at fifteen months and seventeen months (Mister Bubby quit cold turkey, in fact, which was amazing to me because he nursed about six times a day up to that point). I never really intended to nurse Elvis longer than eighteen months, but then he turned nineteen months and twenty months and showed no signs of slowing down, and I thought, “Hm. It appears that I shall have to take matters into my own hands.” And you know what that means. Or you ought to by now. It means that I’m nursing a two-year-old. No offense to him, but as I mentioned previously, it’s not working for me. So now I really, really have to take matters into my own hands. Like actually, in reality, do something of my own accord to see that he does not suck any more life out of me. He hasn’t nursed yet today, and I’m hoping to quit altogether by the end of the week. If not the end of the day. I’m really, really okay with closing that chapter of his life. Time to introduce heroin. Just kidding. It’s not funny.
So no offense to the rest of you all, either, but I think I’m going to go do something productive in the writing arena today, as I’ve been meaning to for about a month now. Between all the illnesses and the other extracurricular activities in my household this past fortnight, I have been sadly remiss in fulfilling my ambitious goal of finishing the manuscripts I started in 2002. I know, it’s shocking. Well, that’s me. I had a dream last night, or something–in my sleep I came up with two brilliant story ideas, and I can’t wait to butcher them in my current state of consciousness. Then I can go back to sleep and dream about writing something good. Au revoir, mes enfants. (Okay, so I don’t really know French. I took German in high school, but “auf wiedersehen, meine Kinder” sounded a little creepy.)
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