Breastfeeding, A Haiku.
Baby is screaming
Tits start leaking everywhere
Just call me Daisy
Oh, the magical bonding experience of having a squirmy, ten pound leech sucking the life out of you through your surprisingly stretchy nipples. Riiiiiight. Now don't go telling those La Leche League Nazis, but sometimes... breastfeeding kinda sucks.
Like when after the little man finally falls asleep after a 45 minute suck-a-thon and you finally get the chance to pee, throw his daily collection of spitup encrusted onesies into the washing machine, pull out a box of Stouffer's lasagna from the freezer-- aaaaaand he's crying again. What the hell?! Where two boobs-ful of milk can go in the hour and fifteen minutes since he last ate is one of the great mysteries of infancy. Either way, he's screaming like he hasn't eaten in a week and the two rapidly spreading wet spots on my t-shirt are telling me it's feeding time at the Anglim Zoo. Fabulous! Seriously, I don't even know why I bother with a shirt half the time. You know? I should just wander around topless, bambino swinging from one boob... very National Geographic.
Don't get me wrong, most of the time the whole experience is pretty sweet. He's awfully cuddly and I've been lucky enough to be spared some of the brutal horrors I've heard about from other new mamas. Cracked, bleeding nipples? Tiny gnawing gums? Yeesh. And on the bright side, I've gotten pretty damn good at one handed, well, everything. And by the time Ian's finally on solid foods and sippy cups I'm gonna be rocking Madonna guns! Sweet!
Just for once I'd like to feel more like a mommy and less like a freaking dairy cow. Ah, a heifer can dream...
With love and lactation,