The BF'er and Her Foe

I’ll be the first to admit that the word “breastfeeding” makes me want to gag (even "nursing" makes me cringe). The idea of a human being A) coming into close contact with my sexy bits in a non-sexual way is appalling and B) using me as a sort of milk vending machine is bad enough without having to say “breast” or hearing other people say “breast” and know that it applies to you. Beyond all of that nonsense it sounded uncomfortable, embarrassing, and let’s face it, just plain gross. I blush every time. For the sake of my sanity and yours, dear readers (are there more than one of you?) I’ll stick to initials.

I’d like to say that it was but for the love of my daughter that I plunged into the BF cult club, but really there was strictly one point that drew me to it. Nothing touted post-apocalyptic  weight loss more than BF'ing. Being the shallow bodyimage obsessed freak caring mother that I was, I chose the way of the boob. That and it's free and formula is most definitely not free. In fact, formula costs more than feeding me and The Brain combined. And I’m a big eater. Anyways... Now that I’m a part of the club, I found myself on the inside of the goldfish bowl, if you will, staring back at all the Foes of BF’ing (myself and my old opinions included) and let me tell you, it’s almost harder to deal with that than it is to stinking get the kid to latch on.

The Personal Foe of PAIN

Once you get past the discomfort of the knowledge that you have a little milk vampire running rampant down your blouse, there’s a whole hoard of personal issues that need to be dealt with. First being, it hurts like a Bitter Itchy Troubled Cat Hoopla. Seriously. They don’t stress that enough. Nor do the words, “slight pain for a little while” lead you to the truth that it’s going to continue to hurt like a mother for the next two months minimum. Your lower half has a good chance of recovering faster than your top. Sadly, a lot of women assume it’s their fault or that it will hurt forever and give up. Believe me, was my weight our finances Shiny’s health not weighing in the balance, I’d have thrown the towel in.

The Personal Foe of TIME

I could go into a LARGE amount of detail here. When you join the BF club, you’ll never be the same. By that I mean, every second you have awake and at least half you have asleep will be dedicated to your little sucker. I BF’ed more than I drank, ate, peed, watched tv, thought, slept, and breathed. Does it get better? No. You will always have to BF right as you find yourself needing to pee, right after you make dinner or were about to eat, just as you are drifting off to sleep, and MOST inevitably as you are stepping out the door to a very important appointment to which you are already five minutes late. Then you get to choose between letting the kid scream the whole way or being thirty minutes late.

The Personal Foe of JUDGEY JUDGERS

“Ewwwww, in public????” Believe me, I fought this for a long time. I refused to BF in public. I loathed public BFers, especially the ones that found it inconvenient to cover up the goodies. Even now I try to plan around time out so that I can PLEASE GO ONE DAY WITHOUT EXPOSING MYSELF ACCIDENTALLY provide a nutritious meal for Shiny while maintaining the proper outside etiquette. But honestly, when the kid starts crying, all sad and hungry, there’s nothing else to be done but to pop in the milk maker. Public audience or no. That’s why God invented MooMaskers Nursing Covers. So please don’t stare at me like I’ve just curdled your lunch. You eat yours, let my kid eat mine.

The Personal Foe of WORKING

Technically now work places are required to allow you to pump or breastfeed and to provide a quiet, private space for you to do so. This was how I found myself sneaking into a hiddenish women’s bathroom to do my dirty deed in shame. If you think BF’ing is bad, try pumping. Nothing makes you feel like more of a moo-cow than plugging plastic suckers on and going to town, watching those little bottles fill up. Heck, 60 years ago I could have dumped it into a glass bottle and gone door to door selling it fresh. Ew, sorry, that was gross. But it’s a bit of a defeated feeling, sitting there letting machines do the work while you sit awkwardly. The only good part of BF’ing is watching your little nommer, who will occasionally glance up with adoring eyes, caress you with little hands, and acknowledge for a brief moment that you are the caretaker and love of their tiny life. The machine takes that bit of heaven away and leaves me with a snorting milky machine that makes me feel like I ought to be chewing cud and standing in a line with 20 other mothers all wearing black and white. 

But I guess, for all of that, it can’t be that bad, because five months later I’m still going strong. They tell me one day I’ll miss it. I look at Shiny and I can believe it. Then she makes a grab at my shirt and my five minute break is done and it's back to business as usual, and I stare longingly at my cross stitch and my dinner and my husband stares longingly at my chest and I think, “How am I supposed to make it a full year???”