A Tale of Two Titties

Warning: This post contains gratuitous breastfeeding whining. For mature audiences only.

Ah, breastfeeding. One of my favorite topics now. Why, you ask? Well, for the same reasons I enjoy discussing any topic that is controversial and probably rooted in LIES! Lies? Yes. Lies.

Exhibit A: One of thousands of Renaissance paintings featuring the Madonna (as in the Virgin, not "Like a Virgin") nursing her sweet baby boy. Notice her face--serene, at ease, completely relaxed and thinking good mommy thoughts about how natural and wonderful breastfeeding is.

LIES! And this was so obviously painted by a man who has never breastfed. Because if it were painted by a woman, i.e., me, she would be scarfing down a bag of Cheetohs with one hand while her wailing child struggled to latch onto her bloody nipple. The Madonna's face would be grimacing, not beaming.

It seemed, for years, that I was born to breastfeed. How do I put this mildly? Um, I'm stacked. I got used to the reactions in junior high--walking into a room and being just BOOBS and TEETH to people. If anyone were to win a race by a chest, it's me. I thought this, too--big boobs=good nursing. Wrong. I was so wrong. Big boobs make it harder to nurse, because they suffocate your child. And I'll be damned if I'm going to kill anyone with these funbags.

I am a lucky one, actually, because I have been graced with one awesome breast. Repeat, ONE. There's two--they come in a set so baby can use both of them. But see, my left boob has been a little bitch since day one. Finley does not get along with it. So I am now a lopsided nurser, feeding on one side and pumping what little milk my hateful fire-tit will produce.

I am writing this post as a cyber-pat-on-the-back--er, front. New and potential mothers, beware. All the lactation consultants will tell you that breastfeeding is beautiful and shouldn't hurt after the first week. LIES. Breastfeeding sucks (ha, pun). It hurts, it's awkward, and on top of it being incredibly time-consuming (hello 500th feeding in 45 days!), if you're like me, you get kind of restless. And then you read a book. And then you feel guilty.

When Fin nurses, she is in her own little world, just her and the boob. I used to feel horrible that I would read or watch Sex and the City while she nursed, thinking that I was supposed to be bonding with that beaming Madonna face. Now, I know that eating time for a baby is sacred. And I'll leave her alone with my boob for some alone time, and catch up on my reading.

So far, besides that whole pushing a human out of my body thing, I consider breastfeeding my greatest accomplishment. It means no caffeine, no black beans, no strongly flavored foods. It means not sleeping on my stomach. It means the occasional rock tit when Fin decides to nap for four hours. It means leaking through all my shirts when she cries. It means being at her beck and call 24 hours of the day.

But it's getting easier.

Yay for me.