This here bringer of the pooper to the fun party

Boob

So, the whole breastfeeding things works. Who knew!

Who knew that you could sustain the life of another human being solely on the contents of your breasts? There isn’t an official breast person to stand by and make sure I’m doing the whole thing right, but I have to assume that my boobs are working because Leta has completely outgrown all of her 0-3 months clothing. Her legs are starting to stick out of her nightgowns like a little hobo baby. And her head is huge. Gigantic. Enormous. Sometimes I look down when I’m feeding her and it looks like I have a hairy cantaloupe attached to my boob.

I defy anyone who is breastfeeding a five week old baby to go a whole 10 minutes without saying boob or breast. I honestly feel like that’s all I ever say anymore. It’s boob this and boob that and my boobs did this today and can you believe my boobs? When I answer the phone I say, “Boob?”

I wasn’t sure whether or not it would happen this soon but I have come to a point where I actually like breastfeeding. There are still moments when Leta latches on so fiercely that I’m afraid she may bite off my boob (see? there I go again! boob! boob! boob!), but otherwise it has become a magical, deeply moving experience. Not the type of magical that I have sparklers or smoke shooting out my nipples, but in the sense that I have this ability to comfort her instantly and that feeling is really powerful. I’ve also developed a technique that doesn’t require I be surrounded by 50 pillows to support my arms. My goal is to be able to breastfeed and load the dishwasher simultaneously, and when that happens I plan to take my act on the road.

My mother bought me four Sears brand nursing bras that I rotate through my wardrobe. They are the most utilitarian piece of clothing I have ever owned and look as if they were designed with the shape of a 400 pound communist factory worker in mind. But I SWEAR by these Sears brand bras. They are brawesome.

The best part about these bras is that they are comfortable enough to sleep in which means I don’t ever have to wake up in a puddle of my own milk. The breast pads I wear to soak up any leaking, however, are not Sears brand and are a little less friendly than the bras themselves. They are cotton and disposable and are basically boob-shaped maxi pads that you stick inside the bra, self-adhesive side out. I have had to come to terms with the fact that as long as I breastfeed this kid I’m going to walk around with crinkly boobs.

Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle.

Regardless of the inconvenience of the crinkling I’m really glad that I stuck with breastfeeding. It’s true what they say about the unique bond between mother and child that is facilitated by the tender intimacy of the act, and there are moments in between feedings when I look forward to the next feeding, to feel her frog feet kick at my chest, to feel her coconut belly pressed against my belly, but what they don’t tell you is that you can totally use the arm that isn’t supporting the baby’s head to update your website.

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