Little Mavbling is in for a real treat when he gets here; I have decided to attempt breast feeding. I wouldn’t say I have spent my life being anti– breast feeding, but it was never a burning desire of mine. Not even when I had jr. There was one moment, in the hospital, when he was rooting around, and a little voice inside my head said, ‘Let him suckle on your breast!”, and then the big voice inside my head was all, “Like, EW. Gross. Those are your funbags, NOT feedbags. Someone get this kid a bottle.”
So that’s what I did, and now jr. blames me for his not being great at math and science, because that is what his teacher told him, that breast fed babies do better at math and science. Mavrick wasn’t breast fed and he went to CMU and is a math whiz, I WAS breast fed, and while I love me some science, numbers give me headaches, so, go eff yourself, research people. Just admit it, it’s a crapshoot.
It turns out you have to take a class to learn how to breast feed. Mavrick wasn’t very thrilled when I told him he had to come to this class with me. I guess I can’t blame him, being that his nipples are only for show, but I told him we are in this together, and, it’s probably the closest I will ever come to a cooking class, so man up.
I thought the class was at 6:30. That just sounds like a good time to have a breast feeding class, no? I also insisted we leave the house early, as there was a Pirate game, and I didn’t want game traffic to make us late. The end result being, we got to The Midwife Center at 6:15 for a 7:00 class that he didn’t want to go to anyway. You can imagine how happy he was about this.
The teacher, let’s call her Sue, get’s there at 6:30, and around 6:45, other people start filtering in. At first, it’s all women. A tall, dark blond vegan-type, there with her mother, followed by a dark haired woman, with no make up, ankle boot moccasins, and a peasant skirt. Uh oh. Mavrick was shooting me dirty looks, which, roughly translated, meant, “If I turn out to be the only guy here, there will be suffering.”
Finally we get another couple, and, BONUS, they are also in our Child Bearing Essentials class (having a baby ‘naturally’ sure does require a LOT of classes)! We know them! Mavrick waves, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I feel that I need to point out that it appears that Mavrick and I aren’t your typical Midwife Center patients. They do, and I hate to paint with a broad brush here, but fuck it, it’s my blog, tend to be what we call ‘crunchy’.
You know the type. They tend to be vegan, buy local/organic, wear things made of hemp, have an impressive sandal collection, they don’t smoke, they don’t drink … basically the most opposite of me as you can get and still be a human. These people, I do not relate to them.
To me, this pregnancy has been one big exercise in lifestyle modification. I had to drop all of my bad vices for 9 months, and start living healthy (I have been drinking kale smoothies, for fuck’s sake). I have cut out fast food, fried food, alcohol, recreational drugs, smoking… basically all of the things that make life worth living. My plan is to pick these things right back up after I squirt out this kid. But if I SAY this out loud within a three mile radius of The Midwife Center, the crunchy folks will hold me down and make me drink gluten free wheat germ until I agree to buy a pair of Teva’s and work on their organic urban community garden. Horseshit.
So we are already odd people out in the class, is what I’m saying.
Now, let’s talk about my breasts for a moment. I like my boobs. Are they perfect? Dear lord, no. But what’s a perfect boob, anyway? It’s been my experience that men prefer boobs that are directly in front of their face, so, mine have always managed to do the trick. My boobs and I have enjoyed many years of fun, sexy-time activity.
And this is why I wasn’t keen on breast feeding jr. I was young, and having a baby was enough of a life-changer. I was emotionally ill-prepared to also breast feed, so I didn’t. And I did not, nor do I now, feel one shred of guilt about this. Now that I’m older and more emotionally mature, I feel up to the task of being able to divide my brain and my body into “Sexy Adult Time Boobies”, and “Super Awesome Baby Feeder Boobies”.
Because yes, I do believe that breast is best. But I also believe that there is nothing wrong with formula. Breast is best the way that steak is best, but if you can’t have steak, eat a burger. Either way, you’re getting red meat. Our crazy instructor, Sue, said that if we all lived in SueLand, you could only get formula with a doctor’s prescription, because formula is made by pharmaceutical companies.
I am sort of glad we don’t live in SueLand, because I have a feeling that a.) there isn’t a whole lot going on in terms of night life, and b.) I would probably have to pitch in on her organic urban community garden. Horseshit.
Pharmaceutical companies have spent hundreds of millions of dollars to get formula as close as they can to breast milk. They have also developed birth control, vaccines, HIV medication, chemotherapy, and many and sundry other horrible, terrible inventions. While I feely admit they are a money grubbing industry that has our government by the balls, I don’t condemn them for giving the world baby formula. It’s not like we are feeding our babies Radium.
If I wanted to be brutally honest, I would tell you I am going natural and breast feeding because I didn’t with jr., this is going to be my last child, and I want to have the experience. Also, I feel that it’s sort of what my body was made to do, so let’s do this shit. If you really wanted me to get all feministy on your asses, I would further tell you that I think men and the medical community have commandeered the birthing experience and taken away from women their greatest power – to give birth, but hey, ha ha, I start talking like that, and people will … HEY! Where are you going? Okay. I’m done now. Back to boobies!
So ya, if you boil it down, I am doing it for the story. Which is the exact same reason I let Wormy wax my asshole, it’s the same reason I did amateur night at Club Edison, it’s the same exact reason I jumped out of an airplane, got my clit pierced, drank that one thing that I had no idea what it was – for the glory of the story. To say I lived. To drink in the experience (since I can’t drink anything else these days).
But if you chose to have a different experience than I, I am sure your baby will be just fine. All I care about is that you love the baby, that you care for the baby, and that if you are on an airplane and sitting next to me, you shut up that baby.
Thankfully, we don’t live in SueLand. In MindblingLandVilleShire (that’s what I would totally call my town), shit isn’t like that. You can breast feed, bottle feed, do a combo, wear Teva’s, wear Prada, we don’t care. We just ask that you do the best (breast?) you can, and also, call before your classes so you know whether or not they are 6:30 or 7:00 (that’s a little bit of relationship advice).
Tonight, Mavrick and I are heading to our Child Birth Essentials class. (pretty sure I already have the essentials – vagina, baby. That’s really all you need) Tonight, we watch videos on Orgasmic Child Birth. Oh no, I didn’t make that up. But I’m pretty sure they did. If child birth was orgasmic, men would have already figured out how to get themselves pregnant.
Your Senior Breasticle Correspondent,