My Breasts

By: Rosy Barren

“My breasts are no longer yours; they are hers now.” Yep, I actually said this to my wife the other night.  I can’t even imagine her wandering lips making their way to these goddess boobs of mine that I now believe were only made for our daughter.  I should feel terrible but I don’t.  My wife doesn’t know what it’s like to have milk dripping from your nipples and a tiny baby suckling at you in the most innocent of ways.  How dare she take the most natural experience of parenthood and turn it into a dirty night of sex?  I have no interest in sex.  Sex?  Really?  “I love you baby but I recently pushed a child through my vagina and well you get the picture.”  This must have been rough for her to hear given that in my fairly recent past I was practically a nymphomaniac.  I was horny while pregnant, which I hear is fairly common.  My wife couldn’t keep up with my need for orgasm and by the third trimester, forget about it, she was afraid she was going to hurt our fetus.  Not me. I had no problem making my way to the source of pleasure because my body craved it in the same ways it craved Taco Bell and ice cream!

I wasn’t even sure if I was going to breastfeed.  Truthfully I was terrified of it.  It sounded painful and awkward and so completely foreign.  I vowed I would try my best to do it for a year if I could bear it because I knew it would be healthy for our baby.  Many moms with their generous (I say that sarcastically) advice gave me their opinions of the wrongs and rights of breastfeeding.  I had heard all sides.  After our daughter was born I tried desperately to feed her, it was the only thing my body knew to do.  They lay her on my chest and I obsessively said, “I must feed her.”  I was awful at it.  Clutching, latching, gripping, it was all wrong.  My wife knew more than I did and kept assisting our little daughter’s lips around my nipple as I shrieked in pain each time.  We even invited a lactation consultant into our tiny room at Cedars so that she could tell me what the hell I was doing wrong.  She, in all her maternal glory, simplified it by explaining that a baby knows where the source is and if you simply place her on your belly she will find her way to your boob and suckle.  That’s bullshit.  Our daughter sat on my belly, tortured by the delicious smell of dinner and when I finally gave up and brought her head to my breast I couldn’t seem to feed her properly.  She was frustrated and I was frustrated.  She was hungry and I was tired.  The hospital was a disaster.  I must have fed her somehow because we were able to avoid formula in the two-day recovery period after birth.  When we got home we had a Doula come over and spend some real one-on-one time acquainting my daughter and me with my oversized breasts.  It finally worked.  She suckled away and I have never in my life experienced something so incredible.  Her little blue grey eyes staring into mine, probably not seeing me at all but knowing that I’m her mommy, the one that brought her into this world and will watch over her until my last dying breath. She is my angel and right now these breasts are hers.

 

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[Photo Credit: Flickr Member Ficierbaz]

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