Merry Mammogram

Just in case the world doesn't end tomorrow, I went ahead and had my mammogram today. It's been a few years since I've had one. I've been a little busy having babies and breastfeeding. Which brings us to a couple of interesting conversations at the radiology place.

Tech: Any chance you could be pregnant?
Me: Not a chance. I still breastfeed though. Not much, just a little.
Tech: Oh. When was the last time you breastfed?
Me: I don't know. Maybe three days ago? He's pretty sporadic now.
Tech: How old is he?
Me: Almost three.
Tech: So how many times a day are you breastfeeding?
Me: Oh, not even once a day. Just when he comes in at night and I'm too tired to put him back down.
bbbTech: Um, how long have you been breastfeeding?
Me: Five years.
Tech: No, I mean just this time?
Me: Five years. I have two children, and I never stopped breastfeeding.
Tech: *blank stare*
Me: *stares back*
Tech: Um, I'm going to have to talk to the doctor.
Me: Okay, but they said it wasn't a problem at my doctor's office.

insert Jeopardy music while I wait in my little open front gown.

Doc: So I understand you stopped breastfeeding three days ago?
Me: Well, it doesn't exactly work like that. The last time my son nursed was probably three days ago. I don't know if he will do it again or not.
Doc: And how old is he?
Me: Almost three.
Doc: Huh. I don't have kids. But I have a dog who is almost four. I guess I can understand wanting her to still be a puppy.
Me: *blank stare*
Doc: You know, still my baby.
Me: Ummmmm, okay. It's actually called child led weaning, and it's quite common.
Doc: Well, I don't recommend that you get a mammogram today. I won't deny it to you , but you really should wait three to six months after you stop breastfeeding. I mean that can't be long from now, can it?
Me: *blank stare*
Doc: But it's up to you.
Me: Thanks. Let's get this done.

Yes. I still nurse my son because I want to continue to think of him as a baby. WHAT?

No. I still nurse my son because sometimes he still asks, and it's the least I can do for him to let him decide when to be done for good.

No. I still nurse my son because sometimes I want to sleep as much as possible, and I don't want to get up and sit in his room while he goes back to sleep at 3:00 in the morning.

No. I still nurse my son because I'm lucky to have been able to do so.

No. I still nurse my son because I damn well want to.

We are essentially done. It might have even been a week since he last nursed. It doesn't matter. There isn't any milk left. It's just the comfort of it that I can offer him.

But really? Please.

It didn't make me mad or angry. Maybe a little irritated. I was mostly just surprised. Surprised at how little yet another doctor knew about a real nursing relationship between mother and child.

There is a lot of work to do, ladies.

Chocolate and Cows

Around the corner from our house is a delicious and locally owned yogurt store. We used to frequent it at least once a week. The flavors were unique, they always had a vegan option, and we felt like we were supporting our neighborhood.

A couple of months ago, I stopped in at the local butcher to pick up dinner. The butcher is a couple of doors down from the yogurt shop. In the parking lot, in front of the yogurt shop, was a Nestle truck. It was unloading cases of yogurt mix.

I nearly cried.

The first thing I said when I walked back in the house was, "Well, we can't eat at Skinny Dip anymore."

Protests arose. The biggest was from Mallory, who raised the valid point of, "It's just yogurt. It's not like Nestle is really hurt from you not buying yogurt."

It's true. Nestle could care less if I buy their products. If they did care, they would have changed their ways decades ago since the Nestle boycott has been going on since the 70's. Nestle isn't hurting because of the boycott.

Which begs the question, why boycott then?

For me, it's simple. It's my money until I give it to someone else in exchange for goods, services, or the emotional satisfaction of charity. Once I have given someone else control of my money, I don't have any right to say what they should or should not do with it. I have chosen to let them have it, and it is theirs to use however they see fit.

That means, if I believe really strongly in something, like I do breastfeeding and the care of mothers and infants, then I won't give my money to a corporation who makes decisions that are detrimental to that cause. Actions that are repeated with the known outcome of death to babies and the cause of untold cases of failure to thrive and untold cases of undermined breastfeeding attempts - these are actions that I choose not to fund through purchasing products from Nestle.

It's true. The fact that I never buy another Nestle or Nestle family product doesn't matter to their bottom line. It will never change their actions. I know this.

It's about my conscience. It's about me making an active choice not to support such a corporation who does business around the globe without out any concern about the well being of the people. I choose not to support them, and I sleep better at night because of it.

It's also true that I have supported corporations who don't hold the same values that I do. I use UPS, and they have donated money to political candidates who make my skin crawl and my teeth itch. Their choice. I don't see that value difference as actively hurting other people.

And so we come to the chicken sandwich. The chicken sandwich my children love to eat. The chicken sandwich I love to eat. That perfect pickle and adorable cow.

There was a time that I simply disagreed with Chick-fil-a. I knew their position on marriage and their idea of a traditional family. I didn't agree, but I still purchased their tasty chicken and chugged their unlimited Diet Coke refills.

Things are different now, though. Bringing to light exactly where their money is being placed and the fact that the organizations receiving money that I willingly gave to Chick-fil-a are actively hurting people has changed my mind. It took all week, and watching streams of people thumbing their nose to the pain caused by the organizations funded by millions of Chick-fil-a dollars today, but I'm there. I'm to the point where I choose not to give them anymore of my money.

Besides, there are far better things we should be eating in the world besides chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. And when my children ask why we can't go to Chick-fil-a? It will give me the chance to actively show them how to stand up for what you believe and say it's not okay to discriminate against and hurt people.

It's not okay.

Medela wants you to pump and "share the magic"

Usually I fall on the side of treating Twitter like an online cocktail party. I breeze in and breeze out at my leisure, joining in conversations where I can and following links when I have time. It's not a place I get into arguments or even champion a cause.

Yesterday, that changed. Someone, a company, rather, made me really angry.

I expect for formula companies to advertise, cajole, twist information, and outright lie to sell more of their product. It's something that they had to create a false market to sell because while is serves a purpose in some cases, it's not a necessity for most families, and it certainly isn't the best choice most of the time.

However, Medela is a company that makes some really great products for breastfeeding mamas. Their hydrogel pads were absolute lifesavers for me with my first child. I spend the extra two dollars on their breast pads because I think they are that much better than the other brand. I even like their lanolin better than the traditional purple tube. It's no Earth Mama Nipple Butter, but it's good stuff nonetheless.

I own two Medela pumps, a double something or another and a Swing pump. I even rented the Symphony for the first two months of breastfeeding when I had supply issues after following some terrible advice from our former pediatrician.

Last night, when I logged into Twitter for a quick peek, imagine my surprise when I saw this:



I had to read it three times before I could believe it. It was followed shortly by another tweet that they claimed to be a "correction."



The correction was the addition of the word "breastmilk" to their statement. Nevermind the complete absurdity of the rest of the statement.

Pumping breastmilk is freaking hard work. It takes a ridiculous amount of extra time and effort. Working mamas who pump in order to keep breastfeeding their babies after returning to the work force are among the women I admire most in life. Breast pumps are a fabulous invention that allow women to keep giving their babies the best nourishment they can, even when they can or choose not to be there themselves.

But the fact is, that while breastmilk is best for babies, the breast is the best and most normal way to give it to them. Mamas who have the privilege to exclusively breastfeed (and yes, in our society, it is most certainly a privilege), should NEVER be encouraged to pump out their milk, thereby screwing with the balance of their supply, just to allow "others to share in the magic" of baby feeding.

Aren't mamas doing enough work in this world? After making the decision to breastfeed her child, committing to the process, fighting the learning curve, dodging the booby traps, and creating a successful breastfeeding relationship with her nursling, THEN they are supposed to feel guilty about not "sharing the magic" of feeding her baby with the rest of the world?

Is there any choice that mamas make for their babies that someone isn't going to infuse with guilt?

Medela isn't alone in offering this craptastic piece of advice. At Colin's four month visit to the pediatrician, the hand out I received on development and what not also said that I should begin pumping to allow others to bond with the baby through feeding him. I had a PA student working with us that day, and she got an earful about how to support breastfeeding mamas and how this was NOT a good way to do that.

Any piece of advice that takes a baby away from the mama's breast is NOT advice that is supportive of breastfeeding.

Could we all say that together, please?

ANY piece of advice that takes a baby away from the mama's breast is NOT advice that is supportive of breastfeeding.

What makes me so angry about Medela's actions here is that I expected so much more from them. Their advice, if followed, leads to the purchase of more of their products. Their advice doesn't support breastfeeding, it supports the market of breastfeeding accessories.

When will I learn that companies, no matter what they preach and what their mission says, are always out to make a profit?

I am so disappointed, but sadly, not really that surprised.

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Medela did send this out to Twitter:



And while I'm glad they felt led to apologize, it always makes me raise an eyebrow when someone apologizes for a "miscommunication" because when I do it, what I really mean is, "I'm sorry you didn't agree with what I said," not "I'm sorry I said something stupid."

They also sent me a direct message with an apology and asked if they could do anything. I don't know. I have been known to hold a stiff grudge and usually am pretty black and white about stuff like this.

That's not the plan this time. I think that overall, Medela is still a good company with good products. Maybe it was let-the-intern-tweet day or something like that.

I just hope that in the future, when they are considering marketing strategies, they rely more on the good reputation and quality of their products instead of dishing out reasons to buy them thinly veiled in horrible advice.

World Breastfeeding Week, tandem style

I have a picture of both boys nursing in tandem. It shows the top of their heads, the bottom half of my face, a whole lot of boobie, and the two brothers holding hands.

It is one of my favorite pictures.

I considered sharing it for World Breastfeeding Week, but I decided not to use the whole thing. There is something way too personal about that moment. Something that I want to keep for myself. But I had to share the little hands. I love that they have this bonding time together.

Tandem nursing won't last much longer. As it stands, Christopher only nurses now about once a week. It is truly a social thing for him. It's about being with Mama and Colin. And I'm okay with that. He knows that most of the time I'm going to offer him water or milk or a snack instead, or that I'm going to try and divert his attention with a book and a prime spot on my lap.

But it's been 30 months. 30 months of nursing my first born, and I'm so happy that it worked out that way. We had such a rocky start, so to know that we've got 30 months under our belt is very gratifying.

Breastfeeding is just one of the choices I've made in mothering my children. My hope is that I'll be able to support other mamas who want it to be one of their choices too. Happy World Breastfeeding Week, y'all.

Yes, I still blog here

Gratuitous picture of my beautiful boys. Bird always wants to hold Squeak. It's sweet and a little dangerous all at the same time. He's going to love his little brother to death if we don't watch out.

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Remember that last post? The one with the bullets? With this bullet in particular?

• I don't feel well. I've had a low grade fever all week, have some sort of weird rash on my legs and back, my skin aches to the touch and itches, and some of my joints hurt. How weird is that? I'm almost embarrassed to call for an appointment because those symptoms are just lame. But dude, I really don't feel well.

Yeah. The next day, I couldn't walk without help. We headed to the urgent care and found out that I had a nasty case of shingles.

Fair. Not. All that work to be back up and going right after Squeak's birth was hosed. I was down for the count for at least a week and have just now, almost 3 weeks later, gotten back to being able to handle a normal day of activity without my leg crying out in pain at the end of the day. The not very creative way to put it is that it completely sucked.

The salt in the proverbial wound is that my leg, which is currently one of two parts of my body that aren't pudgy (the other being my wrists), and is my husband's favorite part of me, is pretty scarred up now. I'm not sure if it's going to go away. I suppose only time will tell. I hope so, but I'll take the scars over the pain any day.

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This morning, Squeak and I are headed to our La Leche League meeting. Poor Bird is sick again, so he's staying home with his daddy. Bird had to be picked up from preschool yesterday, and by 5:00 this morning, I had him in a lukewarm bath trying to get his fever of 104 to break. He's better this morning, but I'm grateful that Kevin stayed home to help. Yesterday was not easy.

Anyway, I've been thinking about La Leche League and wondering if I might want to become a leader. In theory, I would love to. I'm just not sure that I'm "LLL enough" to be a leader. I'm pretty moderate in my parenting philosophies if you were to average them out. As in, we vaccinate on schedule for the most part, but an artificial nipple will not touch Squeak's lips. As in, we co-sleep until the baby is ready to move, but eventually we are going to do some sleep training if we need to. Basically, we do what works for our family, and at the end of the day, I think that might be "LLL enough," but I'm not sure.

I really believe though, that moms need support and encouragement to breastfeed successfully. If that is something I could do, I think I would like to. I'm a little fearful of the commitment also. Sound wishy washy? Yeah. I know.

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It's March, and I haven't written about Bird's second birthday. So many people just flat out ignored his birthday this year. I wasn't one of them, but I didn't do as much as I would have liked. But it hurt my feelings for him - being ignored for your birthday is rotten, even if you are only 2 and don't realize it yet. Hurts my mama heart.

That's all I'll say about that now. He deserves a full post for his big 2 year old day.

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Amazingly, I got to type all of this in one sitting and didn't have to hold any children while doing so. If I don't stop now, that will no longer be true. So I end here, with way too much left to say, and a severe lack of editing in this wad of words. My apologies.

Squeak

It's difficult to find time to write when nursing is a two handed - who are we kidding - a 4 to 6 handed adventure. By the time little one has nursed himself to sleep again, I can't bear to put him down. So either way, nursing or sleeping, my computer has sat dormant this week.

The update is that things are going fine. Nursing is far more successful this time, even though we've still got a latch issue on one side. I'm getting plenty of sleep at random times throughout the day and night, and Kevin is making sure that I'm eating and drinking. Bird is not so crazy about the adjustment in family structure, but he's digging the reappearance of overflowing na-na's. Did you know that even toddlers can have the yellow seedy breastmilk poop? Not that you needed or wanted to know that. You're welcome.

Butterbean needs a new blog name. Mainly because I'm too lazy to type Butterbean all the time, and good heavens, he's a big chunk of rolly love, so "bean" just doesn't cut it. Kevin has started calling him "Squeak" because most of the noises he makes are just that - little squeaks. He rarely cries, but even when he does, it's not much more than some over zealous squeaking. He's still a mellow little dude. Maybe we should be calling him The Tiny Lebowski. Or maybe not.

I have to admit. I am already sad about Squeak being "the last one." Things have been so different this time. As I keep running into things that I only needed for pregnancy or birth, I get these twinges of blue that I won't need those things again. This coming from me, a woman who declared that she really didn't like the newborn stage. I take that back. Apparently, on Zoloft, I like the newborn stage very much. Or, it could just be that second time around, I'm a little better at it, and of course, there is the factor of Squeak being a totally different baby than Bird.

While I might be a little blue about it, there is that nagging bit about having to be responsible for that other person for at least the next 18 years. That's keeping me grounded. That, and the fact that we are too stinking old to have any more. We old and tired and would like to have some time to ourselves before one of us turns 80. So, we stop here, and it's alright.

But I feel a shift in priorities. I feel that pull towards spending as much time with my boys as possible. I want to shed off the things in my life that might take my attention from them. I savor the moments on the couch or on the bed where I have a nursling on either side of me. I love that this is my life now.

And with that, before I even get to work on that birth story, Squeak calls. Maybe I'll make it back here before another week passes.

Savoring

The silence doesn't mean much. It's just me turning inward a little, focusing on the job I have to do in the next couple of weeks. Focusing on the tangible now.

There was drama on the interwebs, and I knew that my emotional state and my big mouth needed to take a break. Step away for a little bit so that I could not waste my energy on fighting a battle that would soon dissipate into thin air as people simply moved on from it.

Besides, I have a job to do.

Week 37 presented with contraction after contraction. My face broke out, my tummy was upset, and I felt ready. So ready that I almost said "yes, come on" to my heart friend who I would love to be here for the birth. I'm glad I didn't though, because my littlest is still tucked warmly inside my belly, waiting on just the right moment to appear.

Week 38 presented with hardly any contractions and the energy to get some things clean around here. Kevin helped me with the kitchen, even cleaning off the bookcase which until now was simultaneously displaying my favorite Gail Pittman pieces, his favorite power tools, and a pound or two of dust. I am so happy to have it back to being pretty.

Week 39 is here. My littlest is a little less active; he tends to squirm most when I'm trying to sleep of course. I am peaceful. He will get here, one way or another, and within the next three weeks. I'm comfortable with all of the midwives. I have my bags packed. I have wonderful friends who are standing by to help us.

I'm into savoring.

Savoring each nursing session with Little Bird, as I don't know when it will be his last time not to have to share me. Savoring each morning that I get to roll over and lay on Kevin's chest while we snuggle and listen to the chit chat over the baby monitor. Savoring each turn and stretch that I feel inside me as I remind myself that this is what life is about now. No matter what parts of me remain - musician, arts advocate, teacher - the parts I love most are wife and mother.

The last days as a family of four are precious to me. I'm savoring them as best I can because once we become that family of five, I know that it will immediately replace these days as the best days of my life.

Blink of an eye

This morning, as Bird danced joyfully to Andy Williams on the Sirius Holiday channel in our living room, he looked like a little boy. Not a baby. A little boy.

I must say, it happened so fast.

While I was in the attic today getting out my giant stockpot (hello, turkey stock!), I found a bag of Bird's newborn clothes. I went ahead and tossed them down, knowing that I'll need them sooner rather than later at this point.

I must say, they are so very tiny.

At dinner tonight, Bird was talking in two word sentence structure. "Daddy eat," "Yogurt gone," and my favorite, "Love you." Hearing him develop vocabulary and start to use a rough subject-verb relationship is amazing.

I must say, I think he is incredibly smart.

These cliches keep swooping down upon me, and I hear them leaving my mouth before I can think of something more original to say.

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The passing of time as a mother overwhelms me.

There are days that drag on so slowly, causing me to call Kevin at lunchtime and ask him when he might be coming home. The whining and tantrums make the minutes crawl by, tempting me to turn on Elmo and hit repeat.

But then there are days when I look at Bird, and I wonder how on earth we got from tiny baby to little boy so quickly. And my heart aches for the days to slow down; for him to fit more easily in my lap again as I rock him before bedtime.

Soon, we will have that baby when Butterbean arrives. In a matter of weeks, the tiny clothes will be washed and ready to outfit a brand new little boy. I'm nervous, remembering how hard the first few months with Bird were. I was so tired and so incredibly sensitive to the crying. It nearly undid me.

I keep telling Kevin that when it gets bad, or if I start to perceive it as unbearable - I'm asking him to remind me of how quickly the newborn will be gone. How quickly Butterbean will be a little boy. And how I will ache for him to fit in my lap more easily, and how I will mourn the dis-assemblage of the crib, and how I will miss nursing my boys.

It's a fair trade though. I know that the newborn stage is hard, and at the same time, I know that I will miss it when it's gone. But nothing in the world can replace having my Little Bird pop off my breast just before being put down for the night, reach up for my cheek, look in my eyes, and say, "Love you."

He's not even born yet, and I know Butterbean will be there all too soon.

You have to cut that out

Yesterday, we went in for our "nurse talk" where a patient history is taken and the nurse talks to you for about an hour about the rules. Nurse Kathy was nice about Little Bird tagging along with us. She wasn't so nice when she chuckled each time she said the word, "mature." Apparently referring to my age was the funniest thing she had done in a long time.

Little Bird climbed up in my lap near the end of our talking to and asked to nurse. Nurse Kathy asked how long he had nursed, and Kevin said that it wasn't a past tense thing. I said he still does, and she raised one eyebrow at me.

She said, "When are you going to cut that out?"

"When he's ready."

Then she put her professionally medical foot down and told me that I had to stop nursing my child. The doctor would tell me, and I needed to go ahead and do it now.

I just smiled.

The thing is, I had been sitting there thinking to myself that this could be easy. Just stay here at this OB practice and have a baby the way most of America has a baby. It's what I did last time, and Bird turned out just fine. Sure, some of the doctors and nurses annoy me, and it's complete overkill, but it would be the path of least resistance and familiarity.

Then I was shaken back into reality. That nurse, with her eyebrow raised in disapproval, was a good reminder of why I'm breaking up with my doctor. Maybe not at my next appointment, but soon.

After all, I'm a "mature" mother. I'm making informed parenting and birthing decisions. I'm done having doctors roll their eyes at me while I'm in labor. I'm done having nurses raise their eyebrows at me.

It's time for a change.

Little Bird makes friends

We've been in sunny Florida. Kevin's aunt/godmother lives near Sarasota. Little Bird and I had never met her, so it was high time for us to make a trip.

It didn't look good last week. First I realized that I had booked our flight for PM instead of AM. That put us in Florida a little past midnight with our 15 month old. How fun does that sound? Then I couldn't remember which car rental I had reserved a car with, and we hadn't received an email confirmation. So after many frustrating phone calls last Tuesday, we decided to try and get on standby in the morning and I found we had a reservation with Alamo.

Flying with a 15 month old in lap is an adventure. You really need 2 laps for said 15 month old, so I was glad Kevin and I always had seats together. Also? Still nursing that 15 month old was a lifesaver. That "neh-neh" really kept Little Bird happy on take off and landing.

For the most part though, Little Bird was an excellent traveler. He has this really cool mix of wanting to be with Mama and Daddy, but at the same time, being very curious about the people around him. He will smile at a stranger, play peek-a-boo with them, or keep waving until they just have to smile back. It doesn't matter what they look like or how old they are.

The older hippie sitting across the aisle from us on one leg of the trip became fast friends with Bird. Saying their goodbyes, Bird waved enthusiastically, and Professor Surf told him, "Goodbye little dude. Go doing something great one day."

And considering how my child can draw a smile out of everyone he sees, what I wish I had said to him was, "He already has. He creates joy."

There will be rainbows

I finally watched The Business of Being Born. I have both been looking forward to it and avoiding it all at the same time. I was pregnant with Little Bird when it was in theaters around here, and I wasn't brave enough to go and see it. I knew the basic message was in the over medicalization of birth, and I really wanted to stay with my OB. For some reason, I thought that she was wonderful and would make rainbows appear at Bird's birth.

If she had been at Bird's birth, then maybe she would have. Since she wasn't, we'll never know.

Instead, Dr. Jackass attended Bird's birth.

There is one thing I will not do, and that is question the way Bird came into this world. He and I got him here just like he needed to arrive.

However, there are things I don't have to do again, and won't be doing again. They are as follows:

• I will not be spread eagle in front of Dr. Jackass and have him roll his eyes at me for not pushing the way he thought I should push.
• I will not be in a position where I have to argue in the midst of my questionable pushing on whether or not a scalpel will be taken to my ladybits.
• I will not return to Rex Hospital where I had to fight the nurses day and night to breastfeed my child.

There are other options. I am capable of birthing my babies. I will make choices out of confidence and not fear next time. I will not second guess my ability to nurse my babies.

I will be strong, prepared, and accepting. My baby and I will make our own rainbows.

Now, I just need to stay pregnant.

Oh, Gawd. Bewbs again.

For those of you who know me in real life, I hereby warn you that I am about to talk about my boobs. Again. You may click away now, or read at your own risk.

Catherine breastfed another woman's child this weekend. If you don't know the story and would like to, it can be found here. It's not directly related, but it's got me thinking.

I have two breasts. My momma has one. My friend has none. I still have two that I should be grateful for.

They are mine. I grew them. I have lived with them for almost 25 years now. For most of those years I hid them. I wore baggy shirts and sweaters that were too big. I was uncomfortable with the attention they garnered.

It was more attention than I ever received myself. In fact, this space is even overshadowed by them, with the most searched hits coming from "ginormous boobs" or some incarnation thereof.I suppose that is also because I continue to talk about them.

The first time my husband, then new boyfriend, saw them in just a camisole, he blurted, "My God! They're ginormous!" I quickly put the baggier shirt back on and slunk down in my seat. I wanted the focus to remain on me, not them. Betrayed by my breasts once again.

Only I wasn't. After the initial shock, he went right back to talking to me. My face, rather. He held my hand, put his arm around me, all without copping that oops-feel that even some of my friends' husbands have been guilty of copping. Later, I learned that Kevin's reaction to the girls and their girth was in fact just shock. He actually just considered it a big bonus and gave me reason to believe it too. And since my mother reads this blog, I will stop there.

After I became a mother, I expected to have an epiphany about my breasts. Learn the "real" purpose they serve. Open the heavens and sound the trumpets: breastfeeding. My boobies were created to be a food source to my babies. I would magically begin to respect them and they in turn would learn their place in this world. Which was about four inches lower than I had hoped for, but whatever.

The thing is, I don't think the heavens opened, and I don't think they were made just to feed babies.

You see, I have these hands. Two of them. They type, they play the piano, they change diapers, they bathe a child, they prepare meals, they clean this house. They do a multitude of things for every different part of my being. The writer, the musician, the mother, the wife, all use these hands.

It is the same with my breasts. They are functional; feeding my child. They are sexual; just ask my husband. They are decorative; clothes fit better with them than without them. They are all of these things to me.

The boobies belong to me. If I want to use them to feed my child, I can. If I want to use them to pump milk for another child, I can. If I want to use them to nurse another child, I can. If I want to use them to try and sell albums, I can. If I want to use them to reach orgasm, I can. If I want to use them to keep my toes warm, I can in another few years, I'm sure.

They belong to me. Yours belong to you. And no one. No one should be telling us what we should or shouldn't be doing with them.

Reminders

Andria said it. It's strange how something so natural can be so difficult. But it is. Breast feeding has been very very hard. I keep reminding myself of all the reasons to continue. How good it is for Bird.

Then, there will be moments like these, after I nurse him. He pops off with milk still dribbling out of his mouth. His little lips smack and he squirms his way in just a little bit even closer to me. One of my favorite faces he makes involves the raising of his little blonde eyebrows followed by a quick nose wrinkle. Most of the time, I even get a smile or two from him.

As he falls asleep, propped up on the breast that just nursed him, I'm reminded of how good it is for me too. Good to be able to give him something no one else can. Good to bond with him.

Good to get to be his momma.