I am a lazy breastfeeder. I admit it. I see all these pictures of mothers sitting upright or standing, holding their children in the crooks of their buff arms and I think, “Forget that!” Since I had me Lucky Charms stiched up after the delivery, it hurt to sit up, sit, or think about sitting. I was given a vital doughnut, a small inflatable plastic doughnut (durr) that was so whoopy-cushion-thin I was sure it would go pffft under my honky tonk badonka donk behind (I have trouble calling body parts by their scientific names, if you haven’t noticed. I fear for my child.). I breastfed lying down and the position stuck. I never tried the football hold until last week. Seriously. For the first two months of Nathan’s life, my world looked like a photo that hadn’t been turned clockwise.
And Nathan enters a deep, quiet, slumbers when we are lying next to each other. When I try to extract myself from his vacuum-mouth, he seizures awake until his piehole is corked with my unwounded boob. This makes me think of Rip Van Winkle. I theorize that the real story goes like this: Mrs. Van Winkle breastfed the lad, sleeping next to him under that shady tree for 20 years until she awoke with an adult son still attached and realized she needed a life. And maybe some Junior Mints. I don’t even know if they had Junior Mints in the Revolution, but if this is my rendition, they did. A shelf bra wouldn’t hurt either, because after 20 years of gravitational breastfeeding, could you imagine?