aibiffity: my lovely lady lumps

My mother has always believed herself to be a strong proponant* for not worrying about what other people think. Which is kind of funny because if there was anyone in this world who taught me to give a rat's arse about what someone else - everyone else - thinks of me, it's her.

We went out to a cafe the other day, and as she was saying something about her being the one who taught us that what others think shouldn't affect our actions. As she spoke, I ~~ripped open my shirt and flopped my tits onto the table~~ discreetly put Daniel to my breast and began feeding him. Mum asked me if I shouldn't perhaps put a shawl over my shoulder to cover ~~my giant bazookas~~ him. I jokingly (read: passive/aggressively) referred her to her purpoted* teachings from my childhood.

"But this is different" she said, "There are people who would be offended by what you're doing".

Uh, okay.

For what it's worth, I don't cover up when Daniel is nursing because, while I'm not too keen on supplying a specific band of fetishists with a laundry list of wank fantasies, breastfeeding isn't a sexual thing and as such, it doesn't need censorship. I don't like eating while wearing a bag over my head, so I'm not going to make my kid eat while wearing a bag over his. Also, a ready supply of oxygen never goes astray when one plans on keeping one's infant alive. In any case, his big, giant head covers my nipples which are, according to the FCC and their outrage over wardrobe malfunctions, the business end of pornography - and why is that? I mean, when it comes to mammaries, men and women share the nipple factor, but we don't share the lumpiness. Why then isn't the lumpiness censored?

Eh, I know what I mean, I'm just having a hard time transforming my thought processes into journal entries.

Actually, I have a hard time transforming everything these days, which is why my pages here are so yawnsome. I think things and then *poof* they're lost in translation, becoming something as riveting as "this happened, that happened, the end". Just so we're clear, my life isn't as boring as my lack of updating suggests. Oh, we do sweet fuck all most days, but in between the fuck alls, there is Daniel, and his light fills my heart and makes it sing. Loving him is like watching someone blow up a balloon. There's this anticipation that builds as the balloon grows, and it grows so big that it's just got to explode, but it doesn't. It keeps growing and you keep watching and the anticipation of it exploding right...about...now - but it doesn't...actually, it's probably more like an orgasm than it is a balloon. The feeling is so intense that it has to explode, but it doesn't, and just when you think it couldn't get any more intense, it does. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

If you have kids, I probably don't need to explain that analogy to you at all.

But I digress.

While I always planned on breastfeeding, I was a little squicked by the idea. I was also squicked by the idea of climbing out of bed in the middle of the night to sterilise bottles, mix formula and plug my baby's gaping maw with a bottle. My laziness was enough to convince me that breast is best, even though breast is best (oops, did I say that out loud?), and lo! After nursing the little sucker (hee!) a few time, the squick factor faded and now it's just Something We Do To Keep Him Alive.

Speaking of which, I expressed for the first time ever yesterday, the Grande Planne being mum would bottle feed him while I was away for more than the three hours there are between feeds to run some clases. HA! Dude is short but man, he's opinionated. He also ended up wearing more of his dinner than what went down, and my mother may never recover.