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Monday, January 28, 2013

Why breastfeeding sucks more than the latest Hangover movie!


Geez, breastfeeding women and the divided opinions about discretion and breast exposure seem to flare up in the news again and again. Frankly, I’ve seen more boobies on the blokes at the local swimming pool than you’ll ever see providing nourishment to a baby.

When Thaddeus was born, as a first time mother, I had a lot of trouble getting him to latch on. I persevered through cracked nipples and a few other icky issues and managed to endure three months of it before he was put on the bottle. 

I was able to hang in there until about twelve months with the rest of them and lucky Lulu was breast fed until she turned two.This effort was due to a fundamental laziness at not wanting to sterilize bottles rather than a zealous fixation on breast feeding.

Was I a discrete breast feeder?

No, not particularly.

Modesty was the best policy when I first began nursing Thaddeus but by the time Lulu was born, I’d pull out the old milk jugs while pushing a shopping trolley around a supermarket. ..anything to stop a screaming newborn.

That is not to say I had sacrificed my feminine dignity. 

Not until the glorious, “Tradesman Porn Show Event” that is.

Grabbing a quick shower in the morning before my then husband left for work, was a coveted activity in the months after Lulu was born and there were five children under seven years of age trolling around the house.

One morning, emerging from my steamy indulgence, I realized I had brought my knickers and nursing bra into the bathroom but had neglected to grab my nursing pads.

Now excuse my vulgarity, but Twin 1 and Twin 2 were both fully engorged with incoming milk and I was reluctant to fasten the bra cups as I didn’t want any seepage sullying my clean brassiere. 

My cunning strategy was to make a dash from the bathroom across the hall to my bedroom wearing my knickers and my nursing bra with the flaps down. 

'Surreal' is how I’d describe my emotions, as bursting into the bedroom at high speed, I realized there were two men standing beside the air conditioner.

One of the men was an apprentice electrician; the other was my stupid, stupid then-husband who had invited the young bloke in to the bedroom to check the wiring.

Traumatised’ comes close to illustrating the expression on the young lad’s face.

I doubt at his tender age, he’d ever heard of or seen a nursing bra.He was plainly bewildered at the bizarre woman, standing immobilized at the door, with two pointy norks sticking out of her creepy Madonnaesque brassiere.

We did organize to get the air-conditioner repaired but the apprentice never returned. 

His boss probably sent him off on stress leave.

I answered a knock on the door a few days later.

“Hi, Mrs Poinker,” said a leering and more senior Sparky with a barely concealed grin on his face. 

“I’m here to fix your airconditioner.”