You haven't lived until you have milked yourself

I am a breastfeeding momma. My first baby was exclusively breastfed with the exception of maybe 5 bottles for an entire year. That, I assure you, speaks less about my mother of the year credentials, which were ruined when the Kraken stuck an apple chunk up his nose this morning, and more about how often I get out.

Baby number two has taken momma's home cooking for six straight months. But . . . there is a wedding coming up and the possibility for mini weekend getaways for my husband and I and so Rosie is learning that plastic nipples come with some advantages (such as having the undivided attention of daddy or grandpa or grandma, not getting dirty looks from people in public who should mind their own business, and having a little peace from that crazy mother of hers who is such a drag).

This is where my personality splits. Part of me, the terrible mother part, is a bit relieved for the break. I am not one of those women who love to breastfeed. I do it because it is best for my children. I am grateful to God that I had two easy breast feeders. I know that some women struggle and struggle and morn the loss of this bonding experience and for them my heart aches, but I just don't necessarily enjoy the act of breastfeeding. Maybe we should blame my Kraken for this. He is a loud and angry drinker, often feeding on all fours like a puppy, stretching my skin to its limit. (No, not kidding, you can ask Yaya who happened in one morning to witness my torture.)

My other self feels very guilty. Like I said, the breast is best. And being a second child myself, I want as much of Rosie's start in life to be the same as my son's: same first picture moments, same video moments, same time we start solids, same trips. And so on and so forth. I will let you know how that goes. Not so well already I am horrified to report.

All I know, as will any breastfeeding mom, is that missing a feeding is not good for comfort. Hugs are painful and any crying infant or thought of a crying infant releases the flood gates and a puddle ensues. I’m pretty sure “the wet look” was meant for hair dos and not specific areas of my tee shirt. And so we are forced to pump. Pump to save the supply. Pump to stop the leaks. Pump to stop the pain. Oh how I love to pump. Let me just say you haven't truly lived until you have milked yourself. I’m sure hearing that distinctive, rhythmic whirring gets my hubby hot and bothered. It certainly makes me feel sexy. If that wasn’t awkward enough, anyone who comes over and raids the fridge gets to stare at my secret milk stash. It makes me think twice before offering visitors ‘anything you can find in the fridge.’ Yummy.