Notes on Nursing

If there's anything we women need, it's another euphemism for a female bodily function. That's why, when they came up with the term "nursing" to describe the process of squirting milk out of our nipples in the general direction of our progeny, we all breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Speaking for myself, I rather like pretending I'm refined and delicate as I'm whipping my breasts around.

I have to admit that I enjoyed the whole nursing process, even on top of the perk of having breasts as big a my head (a real novelty for me, and a positively religious experience for my husband.) I found that it tended to really reduce the amount of paraphernalia I had to cart around at all times, making me less apt to be mistaken for a "Let's Make a Deal" reject.

One of the biggest myths of nursing is that it's a natural, innate knowledge that kicks in magically, a latent memory released by massive doses of endorphins or something. The reason for that kind of thinking is that in the olden days, you had 7 or 8 generations living together under the same roof, and all those grandmothers got to tell you what was what. There was no reason for a dedicated section in the book store, or those "La Leaky" people. We independent modern women are clueless.

My first hint about the difficulty involved in successfully nursing a baby was my introduction to the nursing bra. Trust me, they're a lot more complicated than they look. If men ever had trouble with the back hooks, I invite then to attempt the nursing bra one-handed. This may have been the first time in my life I ever mused that the design of a women's undergarment ought to have been handled by men. At least they would have put in a remote control.

After having such bad luck manipulating the "trap doors," I decided I ought to take the class. You know the one - where you pretend a stuffed bear is an infant, and you get to practice the "football hold" which has NOTHING to do with "hiking," by the way, and they get really bent out of shape if you do anything but stand there waiting to be tackled. Even when you have a CLEAR shot. I didn't think it made much sense. But, then, I didn't think she'd actually FLUNK me, either.

After that I had pretty low expectations of nursing success. And when it came time to sink or swim, all I know was that the majority of the hospital nursing staff stopped by, in turn alphabetically, to grope me and give me pointers. Which didn't help one bit, but my husband got a kick out of it.

As it turned out, I was one of the lucky ones whose babies just seemed to take a shine to the breasts. In fact, not since the advent of the Electrolux has such suction come in such small packages. In each case, I could have DROPPED them, and they'd have just hung there, swinging. Can you say "blisters?"

Those first few days were a bit misleading, though. Because just when I thought I was getting the hang of things, there was this interesting turn of events called the arrival of the milk. As we all know, milk usually comes in jugs. On this particular occasion, there was no deviation. My boobs ballooned like an inflatable life raft, achieving something like 10,000lb. PSI in a matter of hours, and threatened to take out the left half of my house in a milky explosion, if somebody didn't DO something, but quick.

It's a cruel joke of nature, this exact coincidence of awe-inspiring newfound proportion with the threat of utter destruction, should so much as a curious glance graze your chest. But this incredible pressure is God's way of motivating a woman to perfect the nursing process, post haste.

While in my case, nursing proved easy, convenient, and a great source of bovine jokes for everyone in my social circle, I have to qualify that it isn't for everybody. It just doesn't work well for women who can't take major shooting pain for the first 2 or 3 weeks, on TOP of the garden-variety birth recovery. Or those who might be shocked at the lawn-sprinkler freak show that a warm shower brings on. Or for the shy and modest. (Though I'm not sure how one maintains any level of modesty after being parked in that birthing position for the hospital equivalent of the rose bowl parade)

As great as it was for me, like all good things, it eventually must come to an end. Preferably before the kid qualifies for a driver's license. I still kind of miss the body contact, and the little snorting "yummy" noises they used to make - which I'm sure raised an eyebrow or two in the next stall.

But by way of consolation, I have two marvelous, ever-present testaments to my selfless gift of nourishment. And a couple of great kids, too.