I am high on newborn love. Seriously. My heart feels like it's going to burst. I cannot get enough of my baby boy.
There's just one thing bothering me: Chuck's family is obsessed with my breasts.
My own family could care less whether or not I breastfeed, but Chuck popped out of a woman who breastfed each of her five children for three years. His cousins' and aunts' mantels are decorated with bulging bronze tits proclaiming "My breasts could cure world hunger." Water doesn't flow from their faux Italian fountains -- extra breastmilk does.
And they're all flat as boards. Fucking boards. Where did the milk come from? A third boob hiding in their ribcage? Did little elves spin milk wheels behind their teeny tiny, stupid nipples?
Their questions started in the hospital. I had just fed Diddly. Chuck's aunt was holding him. She remarked he was trying to eat her shoulder.
"He's still hungry," she said.
Like I couldn't tell. My baby was licking her nasty yarny sweater. She started throwing around the dreaded terms: latching, rooting, milk supply.
I gave Chuck the get-her-out-of-here-right-now look. Thankfully he got it. She, however, wanted to stay and watch me feed Diddly.
I told her NO THANK YOU.
His family's obsession wouldn't bother me quite so much if I wasn't already obsessed with my own breasts. Given my unsuccessful attempts breastfeeding Junior (Chuck's brother wanted to give me tips!) I had my mind and heart set on breastfeeding Diddly.
Set and then set again. One more time for good measure. But it looks like the damn Milk Fairy is going to skip my house again. I hate her. I think about shooting her down as she flies over rooftops.
I've been giving it my best for the last week, but it's just not enough. Last night at 3 a.m. I had to choose between feeding my screaming newborn formula or having him flail at my empty breast for the next hour. I was tired. He was tired.
I chose to feed him.
As I sat there looking at the empty nipple wrapper, I couldn't help but think, That looks like a used condom wrapper. Was I sleep deprived and a little off? God, yes. Should I have put down my cell phone camera and gone to sleep? Yes. But the more I stared at the wrapper, the more I felt like I had just woken up after a cheap one-night stand.
Seriously, the formula stigma is so fucking prevalent and I have ingested so much of it, I was more fixated on the wrapper's insidious condom likeness than on the beautiful calm that had settled across Diddly's face thanks to his full belly.
Like I said, those feelings of inadequacy have only been magnified by Chuck's milk-spurting she-beast relatives.
When this happened with Junior, I promised myself I wouldn't waste precious time on guilt if my supply wasn't enough. I promised.
So I am going to make a declaration on this blog. From this moment on, I am focusing on the things that matter: that my son is healthy and happy and that I have the means to feed him, whether it's from a bottle or a garden hose boob with a serious crick in it. I'm going to do the best I can. I am not going to be a freak about my boobs.
I'm going to get over it.
And when I see Chuck's aunt tomorrow I'm probably going to punch her in the face.
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