The Boob Decision
Moms tend to be beautiful, near-magical creatures. But when it comes down to a heated breastfeeding debate, sometimes we’re left with just the creature part. But this isn’t about that, we’ll leave that one to better writers who are actually women.
Pregnant with Lucas, Lizzie decided she was going to “give him the boob” and wanted to try for 3 months. I said, “Wow, that’s going to be so great, Darlin’. Go you!” That was what I said in an alternate reality. What I said in this reality was honestly more like “Really? That long!?!” Insensitive and selfish, I know, but she saw my mopey, sad face and promised it would not be more than 3 months. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Okay, I’m done laughing bitterly.
Gentlewoman, Start Your Boobies!
Breastfeeding got off to a rough start. Ahhhhh, the elusive proper latch! The stress, the tears, the freaky pumps, the Internet, the late-night calls to the midwife. Tough.
I would try not to look too alarmed as I watched her pull her breast away from her chest like a rubber toy and cram it in his mouth. I once (and only once) made the mistake of suggesting, “I think it’s more about bringing him to your boob and less about stretching your boob across the room to him.” Despite my pointers, she got it in no time. Something else happened though. The boobs became “off limits” to me.
Milk and Cookies
There is no sweeter cookie than the cookie you can’t have. Soft, creamy cookies… Cookies with cute little candies in the middle… Mmmmm… Huh? What!?! Sorry, got lost there for a sec. I just wanted them sooooooo bad! I even resorted to covert operations at night, but was finally caught squeezing the Charmin. Her sleeping hand would rise up and remove mine like an automated robotic arm. Sigh.
So, when that 3-month marker was approaching, I’ll admit I was starting to do calendar checks. Yep. I’m boobie greedy. Let’s consider that an established fact and get on with it.
“Sooooo… One more week until you stop breastfeeding, eh? How’s the weaning going?” These kinds of questions were normally greeted with The Look. The one that says you will not be alive for much longer if you keep going where you’re going. So, I would move on to another subject in the interest of continuing one of my favorite pastimes: staying alive.
Let’s fast-forward. With Lucas still latched onto my wife’s breasts, three months came and went with new assurances of “only 6 months,” enough time to wean gradually. Then the 6-month promise showed up late to the game and was substituted with a 9-month promise, and since the 1-year marker was so close, the 9-month promise was forgotten about entirely. Blah blah blah, then there we were, 2 years later!
Whining and Weaning
After all my nagging, Lizzie finally told me that I had to understand that, to her, her bazoongies were sources of food now and just not allowed for any sextracurricular activity. She needed to understand that telling a man that something that was sex-related was also now food-related just isn’t a strong argument. I still wanted ‘em! She may or may not have shot me with breast milk at that point.
I always understood how special and important the nursing was to her and the lad, it was beautiful. However, after a certain point, it was rough for me to see the life being literally sucked from my wife through her nipples. Those were her words, not mine. She knew she needed to stop, but loved it so much she dreaded the end. I had a clearer conscience knowing that my boob-desperate pestering was mixed with care and concern that was actually valid.
When Lizzie finally did stop breastfeeding, after Lucas’ turned two, she said, “You know! The funny thing is, I think I could have easily just stopped a year ago.”
Not smiling, I replied, “Heh heh. Yeah. That’s funny. Hilarious.”
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