The Big Leak

I had a big leak today while teaching. I had to run to the classroom next door and borrow the teaching assistant's scarf to cover up the to huge wet spots on my bosom. My nipples were busting through my bra, t-shirt and thin sweater I was wearing. It got pretty uncomfortable for me. My boobs haven't been this rock hard in a long time. I don't think any of the students noticed or if they would even recognize it for what it was if they saw it. I don't even wear nursing pads that often anymore. Goes to show... you never can tell. Worst thing is that I had to hang around after work for an extra hour because of a staff meeting. BOY, was I glad to see DD when I got home. She was sleeping but she managed to make me feel a lot more comfortable even in her dream state.

Who Knows Breast?

Who knows best? Mother, of course. Mother knows best about breastfeeding her child. The other day I was at my in-laws. Baby had a very sore bottom from a bad diaper rash. She was crying and uncomfortable. This much was obvious to me, and I was trying to help her through it. I tried nursing her but she wasn't going for it. In the meantime, my in-laws and assorted family members decided that the kid was hungry. The kid was not hungry. Having just released a couple of breasts full of milk into her mouth, I was fairly certain of this. I know her eating rhythms and I just knew she wasn't crying for food. My mother-in-law, who I like very much but who is clinically neurotic-- especially when it comes to feeding her grandchildren -- told me that when she was breastfeeding (nearly 30 years ago and then each time for only one month postpartum) she would give a bottle after every feeding and keep giving bottles until she was sure the baby was not hungry. Most babies I know tell their moms when they're hungry. My husband sure does. I'm sure he didn't ever get a chance to when he was a baby. God bless. This was a whole new frontier for neuroticism.
Anyway, I finally consented to let them give her a bottle of formula. I warned them though that just because she drinks it, doesn't mean she was hungry. It just means she's getting a snack that's sweeter and easier to drink than breastmilk. I think of it as baby candy. They fed her a big bottle and she drank it down, smiling. Two minutes later she resumed her writing and wailing which lasted until I put a soothing ointment on her bottom.
I am really a difficult person to offend, but this whole situation got to me. Who are they to tell me whether or not she'd eaten enough? Her sustenance is derived through my body. I would call that a pretty strong bond. I feel my breasts fill up, I feel them release the milk. Would I question them if they told me they'd just peed? Even my husband was begining to doubt me, and he's usually quite good about these things. In fact, it was his doubt that made me doubt myself and let me decide to allow her a bottle. Next time I'll just stick to what I know-- though the only way to get them off my back and keep the peace was to let them try to bottle feed her. (Maybe they all were having secret maternal urges and just wanted to feed her.) She drinks formula about once a week when I'm working, but when I'm around, I'd much rather she gets fed the old fashioned way. Also, that's how I know when she's had enough.

That Bites!

The biting started sometime around month 9 or 10. He doesn't even breastfeed anymore, but he's still biting me. They say that whe baby bites your nipple (yes, it hurts even worse than it sounds-- think tiny little sharp teeth) it's a sign that they're done eating anyway, so you might as well take them off. You're supposed to reprimand firmly and remove. Well, I would do that but it never helped. Maybe because I have no willpower and as soon as he cried I'd stick him back on-- most of the time. But now it's just random bites. My thighs, my belly, my arm... whatever is in reach. He prefers fleshier places, of which I have plenty lately.

He doesn't bite his father, though, which I think is a sign that the biting is related to breastfeeding. I wonder how he'll react when his new sibling is born. I think he still remembers breastfeeding his enjoyment of it.

Senti-mental

Sometimes I get sentimental about my breastfeeding days. And this is at eighteen months! About 4 months after weaning! I really should enjoy my time off now, though. In a few months I'm going to be starting all over again.
Other times, I am really glad that breastfeeding isn't going on anymore. I remember how difficult it could be some nights -- many nights at a stretch, really, when he would wake up and accept nothing but the breast as an incentive to calm down. That's when we realized that it would have to be DH who got up every night with him if we were ever going to get past that stage. It took a few days but eventually it worked.
I don't remember my last breastfeed. The truth is, it probably contained more than a few screams from me because towards the end he made a pretty regular practice of biting me-- hard-- when he was finished eating. Have you ever been bitten on your nipple by little razor-sharp teeth? It is a most unpleasant experience. When DH complained about the noise of my cries, I offered to bite his nipples to see what he would do. He doesn't have a very high threshold for pain. He demurely retreated back to his side of the bed.

Before The Begining

One of the reasons I was a little hesitant to start this blog is that it requires talking about my breasts. I am a rather private person, though less so nowadays when it comes to my mammaries. Forgive me if I use slangy words like 'boobs' or 'hooters' or 'honkers' occasionally. It helps to liven things up.

There is a story of Winston Churchill-- I think-- who was hosting eh... someone British... eh... I have to look up the exact circumstances... for dinner. Chicken was on the menu and the guest was offered drumsticks or breast. "Breast!" She exclaimed "How vile to refer to it as such. The proper way to refer to this cut of chicken is 'white meat.'"
Thinking this hilarious, old Winston (again, I'll check the details) later sent her a brooch with an attached note reading "Thank you for the pleasure of your company. I hope that you will pin this brooch upon your white meat."

The quotes, of course, were made up by me, but you get the point of the story.

Anyway, I never had much white meat before the start of my pregnancy. Even during my pregnancy, my bra size went up by one back size, though the cup remained the same. My relative smallness never bothered me. Well, at least it never bothered me from about age 15 onwards when I discovered how blessed I was to be able to participate in athletic activities with only one wimpy bra instead of two sports bras as some of my bigger-chested friends had to do. I never even wore a bra regularly until age 14 or 15, as I remember it. I have always been able to buy cheap, cute, flimsy bras, though admittedly I leaned towards ones with a little bit of padding, not for their filling nature but to avoid the dreaded 'nippleitis'.

During my pregnancy, I would look down at my white meat in much the same way that I did in my early teenagerhood, waiting for something to sprout. Just like in my 'tweens, they never did. The only thing that happened was that my nipples started to dry up and crack. It wasn't painful, or at least not too much, as I remember it. And it might have had to do with the chlorine in the local pool. Still, the change had me worried, having heard horror stories of cracked and bleeding nipples while breastfeeding. I put mineral oil on them and it eventually went away. Looking back, I wonder if my dried nipples had anything to do with the incredibly, embarrassingly itchy scalp I had for a few months of my pregnancy. But that's not in the realm of this blog.

right now i am typing with my left hand only while my son feeds on my

Okay, that's over now. It's hard to type with one hand. Instead of trying to write out what was happening, I made myself a list of topics to make sure to visit in subsequent blog entries. They're at the bottom of this entry.

Now where was I? Oh yes, waiting.

My labour was induced in week 38 due to oligohydremanaise. This is most definitely the wrong spelling of the word. Until that point, there was no sign of milk, as far as I could tell, and my future as a breastfeeding mom seemed mysterious and distant. I had no idea what to expect. I had no idea when to expect it. On top of it wall, I was convinced that the baby was not ready to come out. I still think it was too early, but I'm slowly letting go of the outrage. So after the delivery when they handed me the baby (each sentence here has a whole blog's worth of stories to go with it...) and told me to feed it, I said 'I can't. I have no milk. I was induced and I am early. I'm not ready.' And I wasn't-- at least mentally. I don't remember if it was the midwife or our cousin Malka-- a pediatrician-- who said 'sure you do' and reached over and gave my breast a squeeze. Pffft. Out came milk. There it was. Miracle of miracles. I think this amazed me more than the birth itself. I mean, I figured that a baby was going to come out of the whole process, but milk? Who knew?

Looking back, I think it was the midwife.

I put the baby up to my chest and suck suck suck... he hasn't stopped ever since. There was some talk in the beginning of latching and this and that but pretty much he got it right away and I got it right away and it was good. Then they snatched him away from me and took him to the nursery. Stories stories stories. For another time.

Incidentally, my nipples have never cracked, nor have they ever bled or even been dry since I've begun breastfeeding (pu pu pu). When I mentioned this at a female consortium on the horrors of X (ie anytime two or more moms get together and start exchanging stories), it turned out that the other two moms present had experienced some very painful episodes of said cracking. I guess I'm lucky that way.


List of topics I should come back to:

breASTFEEDING at the computer and other acrobatics thgen learning to relax/sleep
learrning to sleep
pacy anxiety
food anxiety
scratchinf
hickies
bruising
smiles
latching laughs story
tube socks
overnigh breasts
the pump
disintegr. liners
blocked duct
calories
drink or no?
feeding in public
nicknqames muncha
lactation nurse
feelings passed thru breastmilk