I have a deep, dark confession to make… I… did not… breastfeed.
*Collective gasp, breaking glass, a horrified scream*
Yes, it’s true. No boob for the baby. (Poor kid, so deprived.) I did TRY the breastfeeding. I worked with the lactation consultant in the hospital. I offered Chance ample opportunities to gnaw on my hooters. However, due to my being very ill right after his birth and therefore getting a late start overall offering boobage, and except for that one time where he latched on, Chance just didn’t want them. Spit ‘em out and gave me the bird.
But don’t worry, he still got the mommy goodness. I pumped. Turns out that was for the best too, because no matter how often I pumped, no matter how much water I drank or how much food I ate, or how frequently I utilized any of the techniques to maximize the breastmilk… I never produced more than 12oz in a day. NEVER. (Don’t buy all the hype from the La Leche League… there really are women who produce little or no breastmilk. I was one of them.) From the get go Chance was slurping down 18oz a day.
So he got both, mainly breastmilk with a supplement of formula. He was thriving. I was… well I wasn’t thriving because pumping can suck, but I was fine with it. All good.
Why am I telling you all this? OK, you know that phase most babies go through where they love the boob so much they have to share their love with the world? You know, fondling, groping, yanking mom’s shirt down in the middle of crowded places (the bigger the crowd the better) as if to say, “See MY boobies?! Look at these boobs! I love these things…they ROCK!”
Chance never went through that stage. Until now.
Suddenly, at two-years-old – long after most babies abandon such activities – whenever I pick Chance up to carry him somewhere he’s thrusting his hand down my cleavage (or the valley, as I call it; I don’t have quite enough for cleavage). And he keeps it there, unless I forcibly remove his hand. I don’t know if it’s just convenient for him or what. AND he’s sometimes moving that hand around, roughly, then grabbing the material and yanking it to the side. In public. A lot!
Now, right after he was born, I wasn’t so concerned with the modesty. I mean, I had just had a roomful of strangers staring me full moon in the hoo-hoo. You know? What’s a little titty flashing after that? But that was two years ago! Since then a sense of decorum has managed to work its claws back into my hoo-hoo showing heart.
Maybe I am making it a little convenient. My blouses do tend to be a little low-cut. Not hoochie-mama low-cut or anything (not that there’s anything wrong with that; like I wouldn’t occasionally sport the hoochie-mama look for special occasions if I had the cleavage – which I don’t; damn it), but definitely lower than a t-shirt crew neck low-cut. Along with stretch marks and a shrunken bladder, I inherited a thyroid condition from pregnancy. Anything on my neck in a certain area… drives me up the wall!
Anyway, Chance has definitely been taking advantage of the lowish-cut tops. There he goes, hanging out in my boobs, exposing me to the world, all very cavalier. I just don’t get it. Why would this start now? I understand younger babies and their boobie love affair – they’ve established a relationship, they’re commited. But Chance was much more used to being cuddled at my neck than he was several inches lower. I know boys like boobs as playthings but does it really start this early? (He had smacked the girls a few times, too – same move he pulls on Keen’s belly – I’m assuming to watch the jiggle (don’t worry, I nipped that one in the… um… nip.) And then on top of the grappling and my correlating soreness, I’ve also been finding OBJECTS in my bra! Whatever’s in his grip when he goes for the valley, Chance has been dropping into my bra. I usually wouldn’t even notice there was anything in there until the end of the day. (Sue me, it happens.)
And that’s why I think I’ve finally figured out what he’s really doing. He’s using my cleavage, my little happy valley, as a garbage receptacle! “Oh, hey Mom. We’re going for a ride? OK, let me just get rid of this wadded paper in my hand.” Or leaves. Or gummy food bits. Small rocks. Whatever.
I am the trash can. Coo coo ca choo.
(Maybe if I had managed to breastfeed he would treat the ta-tas with a little more respect.)
- the weirdgirl