The following continues and concludes this nostalgic bit of TMI requested by a follower. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I was damn dedicated to breast-feeding, too. Even when Ash bit one of my nipples halfway off while having a jaw spasm (in the future, I will cringe at the thought of orthodontics, my sensory kid, and my budget…but at the time, oh, was I grateful for his overbite), and the doctors said, well, nursing is still best for him in his medical state, but for your own sake you might want to stop….even then, I kept on. I nursed that child for almost two years, at which point he began metabolizing my milk faster than he could draw enough nutrition from it, and the real “fun” of dealing with his feeding issues began.
In the meanwhile, though, breastfeeding my child was full of stories that were utterly hilarious, but in horrible kinds of ways that you just can’t generally go around sharing.
A favorite of my husband’s is the story of Ash Vs. Breastmilk:
As noted, my breasts, when serving their time, possessed certain special qualities. Among them were the facts that they produced disproportionate (and sometimes, it seemed, mathematically impossible) quantities of milk, that they dispensed this milk rather freely, and that once those taps turned on, there was no turning them off until they were drained at least 3/4 dry. Let-down did not have an off switch, just a “Quickly place thick towel here” sign. Thus did I learn to express milk before nursing Ash, lest I choke him; thus did I also not avoid other mishaps, anyway.
Ash Vs. Breastmilk was an incident that arose from Ash just wanting a little snack. My breasts did not understand the concept of a baby wanting just a “little snack” — unless perhaps the baby they had in mind was an elephant calf. So it was that one evening, I sat down in our rocker to nurse Ash, and two minutes later when he pulled away, he got the surprise of his little life. He pulled away, but the milk kept shooting out at him. Babies are much like kittens in some ways, and when something comes near them, they bat at it. Of course, if so much as an eyelash had fallen on my already-teased boobs, they would have exploded, so having tiny little fists punch at them had a predictable if unprecedented effect. Not only did the milk shoot out harder, faster, and in more copious quantities, but it shot out in random directions. This, of course, made Ash flail, wriggle, and counter-productively attempt to ward off the attack-milk, even more.
It was all I could do to hold on to the slippery little boy, so any chances of keeping the pump-cup strapped to my other side, or getting anything in the way of the side he was doing battle with, were moot. What milk was not pelting my poor child in the face and just about everywhere else was shooting past him as high as the ceiling and as far as the other end of the room. I was like a sprinkler system hooked up to a fire-hose. There was nothing I could do except laugh hysterically while attempting damage control on my frenzied babe, and, once I could breathe, do my own version of bolting for the bathroom, which was at least easier to clean.
My breasts weren’t just good at making milk, they were a force to be reckoned with.