I’ve always been kinda, sorta “crunchy”. I grew up going to a summer camp where they swore by the “if it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down” mantra, and I dug it. When I became pregnant with my first child, I did my fair share of research around (and select execution of) prepping for “alternative” mom-ing. This included acupuncture, prenatal yoga, natural birth, midwives, doulas, cloth diapers, co-sleeping, and exclusively breastfeeding (go boobs go!) for the duration of the recommended period.
A few of my crunchy practices resulted in great benefits (acupuncture and yoga), others, not so much (natural birth, cloth diapering and co-sleeping). But all tried and tested hippy-dippy tactics paled in comparison to the results baby and I experienced from breast feeding. With the simple magic of my two mammaries and the abundance of milk they (luckily) produced, I was able to create a magical bond, keep baby quiet and happy when nothing else could, fend off illnesses, whip up topical salves for rashes, and cure pink eye with a direct squirt to the cornea, all the while, fully nourishing my offspring, for free. Basically, my boobs were the best.
With my first, I nursed for 19 months. 7 months longer than my goal (and intention). Baby girl loved her boob time but equally treasured her bottle and lovey, so when I mustered up the courage to test the power of the “Band-Aids over the boo-boo” trick, she took the bait and found alternate suckling focuses.
Fast-forward 4 years, and here I sit, in a dark room, hiding from my second child, a 30 month old (that’s 2.5yr for those of you who were COVID schooled), breast-obsessed, milk monster.
Because, while I’m all for the alternative mama lifestyle, to an extent, I’m an active member of team “no child needs to be nursing from their mother while doing math equations”. Cough, “Are You Mom Enough”, cough. Cut it off!
Never in a million crunchy years did I think I would be nursing a kid for 30 straight months. A kid who knows how to enter the password to my phone, power up Netflix, and binge on his favorite shows (to allow this is so not hippy of me). He’s a walking, talking, mouth full of teeth, 4 course meal eating kid that demands to wash it all down with a quick sip of my boobs.
It gets worse – This child of mine converses with me about plucking my one isolated nipple hair because it’s “ticky” on his “yip”, requests I towel off after a workout because “salt is yuck”, screams in disappointment when I dress for the day, and demands I forgo “boobie straps” (bras). This is NOT where I imagined my offspring and I would be a this stage in our relationship…
Looking at the bright side of the situation (because there’s always gotta be one) he does love me the most, we’ve spent more time cuddling than I ever thought possible, and he’s seldom sick (or hungry). I can also thank my boobs for the extra quite time they give me on the mornings when I’m in desperate need due to having one too many the night before…
How did we get to this point, you may wonder? I’m looking at you, COVID-19. You took my weeklong “say bye bye to boo-boo” excursion away from me and instead, locked me in my home with a knocker needy dude for the rest of eternity.