Thanks for the Mammaries
When you're pregnant, your body is no longer your own. Not only has the creature growing inside you taken over like another sequel to the movie Aliens; but every sales clerk, taxi driver, train conductor and coworker feels perfectly comfortable asking about your digestive system, bathroom habits and the creature's movement patterns. All want to feel it kick; half of them lay hands on you as if they've invented faith healing.
I thought my son's birth would limit this nonsense to his sleep habits, digestive system and bathroom habits.
I was wrong. My breasts were now the province of every relative, friend and stranger.
All the doctors, midwives, magazines and textbooks say the same thing: breast feeding is best for the baby and for the mother. You know all the arguments: nutrition, bonding, savings, portability, bigger breasts.
Women I know still speak of the warm, loving feeling that flowed through them when their milk let down. One even admitted to orgasmic feelings while nursing. That terrified me. I decided if I felt the least bit orgasmic I was quitting cold turkey that second. Just whip that nipple out and switch to formula tout suite.
The overriding message though is simple: if you try and fail, you're a loser; if you don't try, you're a "bad mommy".
So I tried. I failed.
It hurt like hell.
Okay. I did have one moment of pure, innocent bliss while breast feeding; the first moment in the delivery room. But, eventually, the Demerol wore off and the real business of breast feeding began.
I had thought it was bad when the milk first came in and my breasts turned into marble monuments to my husband's favorite fantasies. I was embarrassed when I cleared off a table of plates and cutlery in two seconds flat simply by turning too quickly. One night, I sleepily walked into a wall and made two perfect cone-shaped dents in our freshly painted sheet rock.
But that was mere physical awkwardness. For me, breastfeeding was akin to root canal without anesthesia. (Trust me; I know. My ob/gyn wouldn’t permit my dentist to use any novocaine when I was pregnant, for which she’s consigned to the lower depths of Hades, where the bad dentists hang out.)
My friends were no help. They said it took only two weeks to get used to it. Hah! I didn't even want to talk to the one with twins who could nurse both and talk on the telephone, simultaneously.
The hospital's lactation expert was sympathetic but not particularly helpful. She watched me nurse and said both of us were doing it right. She suggested toughing it out. Gee, thanks.
But tough it out, I did. I grit my teeth, bit my bottom lip and kicked my legs to avoid yelping in pain.
I developed a shoulder tic. I began to flinch every time he cried for food. I prayed to turn his cute little cupid-bow mouth into Mick Jagger-size overnight. I started having nightmares where I was Elsie the Cow strapped too tightly to an ice cold metal milking machine with teeth.
It became an issue of survival...my survival. There was no question he was getting enough milk. He was growing, snaps popping, while I watched. All my suffering just made him stronger. I was in fact feeding the enemy.
So I made a deal with the kid. If I breastfed him at bedtime and in the middle of the night, he would drink formula the rest of the time.
The arrangement worked very nicely. I got to have my breasts back and he got a sane mother.
Then the milk dried up.
That was a real stomach kicker. It happened two days after my son's mouth finally grew and the pain stopped. Who knew losing my breast feeding option would make me feel so guilty? The kid was only 11 weeks old and already he had me tied up in emotional knots.
I must be nuts; after eleven and half months, my body was finally my own again. Was I happy? No, I missed our bedtime routine. My husband, on the other hand, still misses my breasts.
I thought my son's birth would limit this nonsense to his sleep habits, digestive system and bathroom habits.
I was wrong. My breasts were now the province of every relative, friend and stranger.
All the doctors, midwives, magazines and textbooks say the same thing: breast feeding is best for the baby and for the mother. You know all the arguments: nutrition, bonding, savings, portability, bigger breasts.
Women I know still speak of the warm, loving feeling that flowed through them when their milk let down. One even admitted to orgasmic feelings while nursing. That terrified me. I decided if I felt the least bit orgasmic I was quitting cold turkey that second. Just whip that nipple out and switch to formula tout suite.
The overriding message though is simple: if you try and fail, you're a loser; if you don't try, you're a "bad mommy".
So I tried. I failed.
It hurt like hell.
Okay. I did have one moment of pure, innocent bliss while breast feeding; the first moment in the delivery room. But, eventually, the Demerol wore off and the real business of breast feeding began.
I had thought it was bad when the milk first came in and my breasts turned into marble monuments to my husband's favorite fantasies. I was embarrassed when I cleared off a table of plates and cutlery in two seconds flat simply by turning too quickly. One night, I sleepily walked into a wall and made two perfect cone-shaped dents in our freshly painted sheet rock.
But that was mere physical awkwardness. For me, breastfeeding was akin to root canal without anesthesia. (Trust me; I know. My ob/gyn wouldn’t permit my dentist to use any novocaine when I was pregnant, for which she’s consigned to the lower depths of Hades, where the bad dentists hang out.)
My friends were no help. They said it took only two weeks to get used to it. Hah! I didn't even want to talk to the one with twins who could nurse both and talk on the telephone, simultaneously.
The hospital's lactation expert was sympathetic but not particularly helpful. She watched me nurse and said both of us were doing it right. She suggested toughing it out. Gee, thanks.
But tough it out, I did. I grit my teeth, bit my bottom lip and kicked my legs to avoid yelping in pain.
I developed a shoulder tic. I began to flinch every time he cried for food. I prayed to turn his cute little cupid-bow mouth into Mick Jagger-size overnight. I started having nightmares where I was Elsie the Cow strapped too tightly to an ice cold metal milking machine with teeth.
It became an issue of survival...my survival. There was no question he was getting enough milk. He was growing, snaps popping, while I watched. All my suffering just made him stronger. I was in fact feeding the enemy.
So I made a deal with the kid. If I breastfed him at bedtime and in the middle of the night, he would drink formula the rest of the time.
The arrangement worked very nicely. I got to have my breasts back and he got a sane mother.
Then the milk dried up.
That was a real stomach kicker. It happened two days after my son's mouth finally grew and the pain stopped. Who knew losing my breast feeding option would make me feel so guilty? The kid was only 11 weeks old and already he had me tied up in emotional knots.
I must be nuts; after eleven and half months, my body was finally my own again. Was I happy? No, I missed our bedtime routine. My husband, on the other hand, still misses my breasts.