It’s time to get real. I am going to hurt your feelings and probably cause both of us to cringe with my honesty, but it has to be said. Please get a life of your own. You are infringing entirely too much on mine. I still love you, but you have become too needy.
You used to be so agreeable, beautiful even. Soft, painfree, an acceptable size…I regret that I probably took you guys for granted. I know I am full of judgement, but you hardly resemble the old you in personality or looks! You used to just go with the flow, not asking for too much time or attention, but now…
Oh but now…
Now, you demand to be cradled – but not too tightly – constantly. Too much hugging, and you get all tight and bothered – constipated – clogging our precious milk and holding it hostage. Too little swaddling and you throb. Come to think about it, you throb with too much hugging as well. I am breaking the bank trying to find out what amount of physical support is just right for you in various situations (e.g. sleep, a day out on the town, or a leisurely, neighborhood walk…).
You have been very sick (three infections in 8 weeks). I am keeping very good care of you, but you refuse to be healthy for a stretch of time. Treatment for one thing (with nasty antibiotics) begets infection (thrush) and so the cycle goes on. Many supplements have been added to my diet every day in hopes of preventing the previously mentioned plugged ducts and bacterial infections. You require vinegar rinses; soothing and sometimes medical applications; and absorbent pads layered with anti-chaffing pads. Oh, but yes, if the chaffing pads are resuable – I have just learned DON’T. Better to throw away each time or just use good old kitchen Saran Wrap because at least that is disposable and most hygienic.
Because of your pickiness, I am exclusively pumping milk for my little boy which is like feeding him twice all day and night long. This cuts into my time previously reserved for many other things (like sleeping, eating, showering, or unloading the dishwasher), so I am not too happy with you. You demand to be emptied every three to four hours, regardless if my little one sleeps 2 or 6 hours. And could you at least coordinate schedules with him to maximize my time in between feeding activities? That makes me hate you a little bit. I think I can still love you and hate you at the same time.
But then, Dear Finicky Boobs, you also don’t heal. You don’t heal under all of those layers of protective wraps and lotions, despite the extra like 20 pills of supplements I am taking daily. And so you want to be air dried. But, how do you expect me to dry you out when I am trying to keep you as clean as possible and have lots and lots of guests in my home and my new infant wants to constantly be held?! Why do you have to be located on my chest, my chest that is best for holding my son – my son that hasn’t mastered control over his jerky movements or over the English language that I might otherwise use to warn him of his thrashy, pain-inducing bats at your boobalicious territory?! Be honest, are you just jealous of my newborn human?
And back to your former beauty. I am sorry, but I am going to go here and offend you. You used to be perky-ish, monotone, and smooth. Post-jealousy, you are now veiny, monstrous in size, red everywhere from stretch marks (and sometimes mastitis), and torn up from breastfeeding attempts. I cringe thinking about your current visual state. When you are full, you are achy and quick to leak milk. (By the way, I especially did not appreciate this new way of tantruming while trying on bras at the store. It was especially difficult to keep drips of that precious fluid off the merchandise and simultaneously off the dressing room floor while debating your new size and particulars of comfort.) Not an attractive quality, Dear Breasts. This attention seeking is not endearing.
I am exhausted from worrying about your health. I am tired of trying to find bras and shirts in which you will be contained. You are big, ugly, and only minimally functional. Oh but that…in that function of feeding my child, I am eternally grateful. So I have to love you still. For all your whining, crying (milk), and fit throwing, you are somehow keeping the most precious human in my life alive, completely healthy, and even thriving. Oh, I love you, Dear Boobs. I thank you. I love you the most (did I say that already?)…even though I really do hate you a little.