I’m not a breast feeder.
Not in the traditional sense.
I mean, I’ve had shit licked off my boobs before, but not, like, a whole meal.
You know those women, who sit upon their suckled pedestals, passing judgment on formula feeding women, organizing breastfeeding sit-ins when their right to nurse in public has been violated?
I’ve never been one of them. As long as babies are being fed acceptable things, and not, say…anal lube or gasoline, I feel pretty ok about it.
My first baby, I swore I would breastfeed, and I did, for about four weeks, upon which I found out I was pregnant again, and had to stop so that my body wouldn’t implode. The second one, I was also going to nurse, but with two kids under the age of one, things were hectic, the body count was growing, and I gave up after a month. So, my breast milk track record? Not so good.
And yet, here I am, four and a half months later…lactating.
SEE! Nummy baby needs milky. TOES! Look at her yummy yummy toes!
I mean, what the fuck, people. Four months?
I don’t stick with anything for four months.
But, I have. My ass is the size of China. I have done nothing but sit on the couch with my boob out. For four months.
Until Sunday, when she’s all fuck this when I put my nipple in her mouth.
Who does that?
I am pretty sure even Neil Patrick Harris wouldn’t turn down a nipple in his mouth, especially one that is essentially, like, a never ending keg of warm unpasteurized milk.
So, all week, my gorgeous, tiny little Gigi has been meh about my gift of motherly nourishment.
She’s pretty much the most ungrateful baby on the planet.
But, I shouldn’t care, right?
I don’t define my motherhood by my ability to spontaneously shoot milk into the mouths of babes.
So, why am I sitting in the bathtub, eating rope licorice dipped in hot wing sauce, and drinking a tumbler of wine between snotty, ugly sobs?
Ahhh….I know.
She’s the last one.
Gigi is my youth and her fascination with me is fleeting.
There will be no more.
My womb will become a dusty, empty cave where 0-3 month onsies go to die.
I am going to blink, and my boobs will be deflated sacks of oldness.
And there is nothing fun about those funbags.
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She’s gorgeous, and she’ll change her mind, at almost the time that you’ve stopped lactating. Yeah, it’s natures little sick sense of humor. And I didn’t breast feed at all past the first day in the hospital when neither of my kids would latch on because I was on heavy duty post C-section drugs that made my milk taste bitter (I’m guessing). At least you had four months of motherly daughter bonding. I’m going with that. Feel Better?
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The breast rejection is a big one, but next week when you’re FREEEEEE you’ll be singing a different song.
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I’m one of those lactating Momma’s & it’s funny how I don’t think I’m judgemental about non-nursing Momma’s yet I get a little questioning when I talk with a formula Momma. I don’t know what that’s about but I am dreading the day when puppy stops nursing, it will hurt sooo much. While it’s been frustrating I’m a little quietly proud that he rejected bottles (to show his solidarity to ME!).
Oooh, I LOVE your use of the old F-bomb! I feel so much at home reading your blogs! I will continue to do so!
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