So I sit
here with a brand new title, the title of mother, and find myself completely in
shock and awe that:
a) I (with some help from my husband) grew a human-being,
and
b) Holy
shit, she is completely dependent on me to care for her….
The first
24 hours of Brooklyn’s life flew by pretty quick. The nursing staff at the
hospital (who I cannot thank enough for their time and patience) helped us
learn how to properly change diapers (more for me than Chris, I lost my diaper
changing virginity that day), how to bathe her properly (she is not a fan),
swaddle her, and last but not least, breastfeed her.
Let’s stop there
and reflect for a moment; breastfeeding.
Sounds
simple right, God gave me two breasts which (primarily) are to feed a child. Definitely
lacking in the ‘cleavage’ department for most of my life, I was pleasantly surprised
with the development of my breasts when I became pregnant…as was my husband.
Unfortunately, we were unable to enjoy their new shape for the first while; as
if he had so much as exhaled too closely to them I would have nailed him with a
sharp right hook.
So the
hospital nurse described to me how to hold little Brooklyn and get my
anatomical bits and pieces in the right position so that she could successfully
latch onto the boob to eat. The first try went very well and Brooklyn was
suckling away like a baby pig in no time. “Pfff, this will be easy,” I thought.
Wrong.
My milk officially
came in day two post-partum. How do I know? My perky, voluptuous pregnancy
breasts were quite rapidly replaced by a pair of boulders that protruded from
every corner of my nursing bra, and came almost to my chin (I swear!) These
cannons were way too big for my small frame and were so hard that you could
bounce a quarter off of them easily.
Day three
post-partum and I felt a warm, wet sensation running down the side of my belly,
so I glanced down to see this; pouring from my left breast like a leaky faucet
was milk. Streaming from my nipple, down my rib cage and pooling nicely into my
pajama bottoms. The right breast was doing the same; creating a beautiful
design through my shirt.
Needless to
say, I now sleep in a nursing bra, with a nursing pad securely tucked into each
cup. When I go to feed my baby, I have to quickly tuck a burp cloth into my bra
to prevent the impending stream of milk from soaking me, and God forbid the
child where to cry without some sort of splash guard in place.
My breasts
have become so engorged that my baby cannot actually latch onto one of them in
order to feed. I spend the majority of my time in the shower massaging what I
previously referred to as the ‘fun bags’ in order to express some milk and
relieve a little bit of the pressure I experience 24/7. I am going to the
grocery store today with the sole purpose of picking up cabbage, so I can tuck the
leaves into my bra for the next 24 hours in order to slow down my milk
production (apparently this works quite well, I will let you know).
My boobs,
once mysterious and sexual, have simply become vital body parts in keeping my
baby girl alive; something I will whip out multiple times a day (without causing
any sexual excitement for neither myself nor my husband) and bring up in casual
conversation, explaining to my husband how my nipples are starting to ‘toughen-up’
over dinner.
By the end
of this breast feeding experience I am quite certain I will have minimal to no
feeling left in my nipples, and am positive that my husband will never look at
my breasts with quite the awe that he did prior to having our baby.
Just
another example of how ‘my body’ is no longer ‘my body,’ but more like another
one of God’s childbearing vessels. My naughty bits are not quite so naughty,
and any room there was for imagination surely left when my husband witnessed a
human-being being born from my body.
You win
this round Mother Nature…
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