Daisy’s breastfeeding escapades

By the time I reached the “Extremely Pregnant” phase of my first pregnancy, I decided that breastfeeding would definitely be in my future.  I asked the only person that I personally knew had breastfed for some advice. First words out of her mouth, “It hurts.”  Now, my extreme naïveté sure matched my “extreme” pregnant self. I had expected rainbows, cotton candy, and joy, yet… “It hurts” was what I got.

Quickly followed by, “When they try to tell you it doesn’t, they’re lying.”

She followed that up by saying something along the lines of, “The only thing that saved me for those first 6 weeks was clenching my teeth and reciting the alphabet, and usually by the time the alphabet was done, I wouldn’t want to throw the baby across the room.”  Now, did you just say the basic alphabet, or did you add the whole “next time won’t you sing with me” bit?  Eventually, we got to the rainbows, cotton candy, and joy. Bonding, yadda yadda, sweet, yadda yadda, free, yadda yadda. I never really got to use her advice with the results of that first pregnancy.

Instead, I got to become well acquainted with a human torture device, or as “they” like to call it, “a hospital grade pump.” Spawn of Satan, I say. If you enjoy feeling like Elsie, hanging out in the barn, with her udders on display, I would recommend you invest in one. Now, it did get the job done and my premature twin girls feasted on “booby milk” (hey, only the most accurate of terms here.) for about 8 months before the infernal thing got thrown out the window. (Or returned to the hospital. The rent on that thing was expensive.) Once Diva and Intuitive started  needing me to pump about 60 oz. each per day, my mammary glands protested and went on strike.

Fast forward, albeit not very far in the future, to my son’s birth. Come hell or highwater, I was gonna breastfeed this one until the cows came home; straight from the “tap”, or my name wasn’t Mommy.  Where was I? Oh yeah, birth of child number 3. The two older ones were about 19 months old. I really couldn’t fathom getting up in the middle of the night 87 times and dragging my ass downstairs to make a bottle. I also couldn’t fathom telling two 19 month olds to “sit tight” and not suffocate their newborn brother while I ran to make bottles 87 times a day. Breastfeeding, it would be. It had to be.

So, on that lovely evening that Handsome was wrangled out of me, as soon as the nurses let me, I threw him on the boob. 12 hours later, I was happy I remembered the advice I had recieved some 2 years earlier. I used my judgement and made sure to add “now you know your A, B, C’s, next time won’t you sing with me” at the end. I got a few strange looks from nurses when they’d walk in our hospital room and find the newborn suckling and the “new” mom mouthing the ABC’s. I never filled them in on my secret, I’d rather have them think I was a little crazy.

Sure as sugar, 6 weeks or so flew by, and I was finally able to stop singing myself into submission. After the initial shock to my, uh, lady lumps, everything was smooth sailing. I fed that child whenever, whereever, for FREE! The mall, Disney World, P.F. Changs, it was all good. Surprisingly, I only had a few obnoxious comments. Usually from half-dressed 20 something girls. Listen, chickie, if I can see your thong and half of your ass when you’re in your seat at dinner, don’t fuck with me about feeding my kid, ok?

17 months later, Handsome was all done. He was ready for the bright lights of big boy cups and milk from a jug, instead of from my jugs. My mom, “The Mayor” spent the first couple of nights with us after we weaned, and by golly, when she went in to comfort him when he woke up at his normal nursing hours, he just went back to sleep. The day we stopped breastfeeding was the first night he slept through the night.

With my crew well into childhood, I miss the newborn stage. Does that mean I want to pop out 75 more little darlings? Nah, not at this point. But, uh, if you have a newborn I can borrow for a few hours, let me know. I promise, I’ll keep my boobs to myself.

Oh, and if you’re wondering if breastfeeding can be fun, just ask Violet about the time that I showed her how far breastmilk can fly. Her bathroom mirror was never the same. Don’t let her try to convince you that she didn’t do it when she was breastfeeding Pterodactyl.

-Daisy

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.