Til’ the cows come home…

May 31, 2012 § Leave a comment

I’ve stopped eating dairy.  Arguably it’s because I understand the plight of the dairy cow.  A seemingly never-ending lifetime of engorged utters; being milked with little care or foreplay.  Chaffing, soreness and, if cows took showers, the pain that comes with decent water pressure.

Last night I had a dream that I was in a sauna.  I have little tolerance for humidity, so this dream could have been better, but where there is a sauna, there is a massage, so I went with it.  I was happily sauna-ing before my hour long massage with a good looking but modest masseuse who, in a stroke of good luck, happened to be attracted to women plagued with 20 pounds of post maternity weight, when I awoke.  You know how a noise in real life goes into your dream, so when you wake up you aren’t quite sure if you are still dreaming?  Well, this was kind of like that, but instead of a noise, I was awoke by milk streaming up my neck and onto my shoulder, compliments of gravity.  This adds to my case study that nursing is an exercise in hilarity.

We live in a society that spends to much time primping, putting on appearances, getting our nails done, our hair colored, and in reality we are all just one baby away from lactating all over our cashmere sweaters.  My boobs have lived a modest life.  They have dated but never slept around.  They have traveled but have been chaperoned by garments.  They have sunbathed nude but only in the privacy of a tanning salon and they have lied once or twice, when they were padded and pushed up as to appear a little more than they were.  Where I once measured success by my job, or my happiness, I now measure it in ounces.

Had I only known that their future was in the hands of a voracious infant, maybe I would have been a little more reckless with them.  Now I fear the best they can hope for is to retire in a community that appreciates deflation.  I can only hope that, much like race horses retire into greener pastures, that my horses will be left alone to live under the radar once they retire from the field of nourishment.  I understand the importance of breast feeding, I understood the first moment a lactation consultant walked into my hospital room, grabbed my unsuspecting boob and shoved it with little grace or care into the mouth of a very reluctant newborn.  Mother’s milk is “the best food”, mother’s milk has all the necessary “nutrients and antibodies”, mother’s milk is “cheaper and more convenient than formula”.  I heard the propaganda and I drank the Kool-Aid or milk rather, and I saddled up to breast feed my child, convinced that if I didn’t he was no better than children raised on television and Mountain Dew.  I know this is the right thing to do, but that doesn’t keep me from mourning the life my boobs now have.  Sometimes in the shower, when I bend down to shave my legs, they leak as if it equalize their cabin pressure.  I shove them into a breast pump and milk myself while watching TV and trying to act natural as the pump honks with every tug. Their once attractive attire of lace push up bras have been replaced by a more militant uniform that has snap down escape hatches should they encounter enemy fire.  So many new things in this life for them and none make me want to pose on the front of Time magazine or nurse my baby until he can walk up to me, put his backpack down and say, “mom, boob please.”  I plan on nursing my little guy for a year at best, then I plan on entering them into the witness protection program, where he will never find them again.

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