So, my boobs are huge now, and I’m not impressed. I don’t know how large-chested women live with these things. My tummy is so huge that my boobs actually touch it when I’m not wearing a bra.

Yeah, okay, this is definitely Too Much Information, but it’s important. I’ve decided to go against the (massive) flow and bottle-feed the baby.

I bottle-fed Justin, and was happy with the decision. However, it would appear that in the ensuing nine years the Breast is Best folks have picked up steam, and now I can hardly “admit” to wanting to bottle-feed without getting a lecture.

So. Tonight I was sitting on the sofa and my shirt felt wet. Geez, I thought. I’m leaking. What’s the deal with that?

Oddly enough, it was the first time I’ve ever seen milk come out of my breast. This is a strange sight. A strange feeling.

Doesn’t that gross you out? I asked S.

Honey, that’s what they’re made for, he replies.

My son has puked on me a myriad of times. I’ve cleaned gravel out of open wounds on his knees, shoulders, and everywhere in between. I can pluck splinters, deal with lochia after birth, and pull half-eaten rubber bands out of my dog’s butt with ease.

So why am I so squeamish about breast-feeding?

It seems so stupid, my squeamishness. I don’t know what the root of it is. A “they’re only for sex” mentality? A dread of being the root caregiver for months? Selfishness? Anxiety?

Speaking of anxiety, I’d have to stop taking my anti-depressants altogether if I breast-feed. Unfortunately I seem to be taking the one that is the worst for the baby (and me and every other human being, and plan to replace it with something else in June or July).

I don’t know. I think I’m going to need to dig through the psychological reasoning before I start dealing with the physical implications. It’s just this type of thing that I can’t stand.

Digging again,
michelle