The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding

Whoever said that having a Baby is Glamorous?

Okay, no one ever said that. But is what they didn’t say is that having a baby is an extremely GROSS process. You suspect it might be so when you check in to the hospital, but can never quite appreciate vast amounts of multi-colored liquids involved until you’ve actually gone through it.

While I often feel it my duty to fill others in on the most sensitive information of my life (a habit my mother calls giving “too much information”), I will spare you the gruesome details if my delivery and recovery… even though this goes against every fiber of my being.

The topic that cannot be left undiscussed, however, is breastfeeding.

Theoretically, it should be easy.

Open mouth, insert boob.

But alas, even to a seasoned breastfeeding veteran, such as myself, getting the process started can be a little tricky.

I was in the hospital for three days and shuffled though a small army of nurses. One nurse was African American, one was fromVietnam, one was Hispanic, one was white, one was Indian and one was from Iran. As different as these women were ethnically, they all had one thing in common. They all squeezed, shook, and kneaded my bare-naked boobies.

And I was grateful.

Kiana was too tired to cooperate and I was getting frusterated. Had I not had a full staff getting fresh with my girls I may have ended up in the insanity ward. Hormones… you know.

Now that Kiana and I have an understanding (I sustain her, she helps me lose those pesky baby pounds), things are going much better. Now if only I could remember which side I nursed last, left or right.