the glamour of breastfeeding?

There has been a lot of chatter about television recently. None for kids before age two? One hour a day or less for the under fives? We are not a household of television watchers, the kids only watch on weekends and Geekydaddy and I watch maybe 2-3 hrs a week. I watch far less TV here in the US than when I lived back home, mainly because so much of it is rubbish, but also because I don't find I have time to get into new shows, and all my old favourites went off the air. We never joined the TiVo/DVR revolution, and still have a regular old fashioned cathode ray tube TV. We don't even subscribe to cable, we canceled it to pay for our iphones! With so many TV shows now available for free through various outlets over the internet it is possible to pick and choose a few things to indulge in, so we have picked up a couple of shows

One of then is "Dollhouse". By Joss Whedon, of whom I've been a fan since falling in love with the improbably named "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" series. The premise of the show is that a secret organization has enslaved a fleet of attractive men and women, "dolls" and brainwashed them in order to implant new personalities and ship them out on assignments to high paying clients.

The episode we watched last night involved Eliza Dushku, who plays one of the dolls, being implanted with the personality of a new mother, complete with the ability to lactate. I give great credit to the show for showing a woman nursing a baby, and for the storyline itself, which explored the power of the maternal instinct to protect a child, but I had to laugh as I watched lovely Eliza rise, smiling and looking well rested, from her luxurious satin sheets, to pull on a very expensive looking lacy peignoir over a matching negligee, and settle down to nurse her smiling, cooing baby boy.

Geekydaddy and I recalled how glamourous I was back when I was nursing the geekykids. I wore a huge T shirt to bed over the top of a nursing bra which I stuffed with ziploc bags of frozen lima beans to prevent the engorgement that plagued me. These veggies would often have been frozen and rethawed several times, and combined with the cabbage leaves I also padded the bra with, gave off a smell rather like a week old bin.

I had a tatty flannel robe that I would throw on to nurse, covered with milk stains and baby spit up. And to top it off I'd put on a pair of thick woolly socks, as my feet tended to get cold as I sat with the babies. I was not a glamourous sight! Though it is wonderful to see a show promote breast feeding, some of the audience may be in for a rude awakening when they or their partner actually try the real, non Hollywood version!

The show made me realize that even though my last baby stopped nursing quite some time ago, I still have not reverted to my pre pregnancy nightwear. I used to be quite fond of romantic looking frivolous garments. My birthday is coming up, so maybe I'll send Geekydaddy off shopping!

What about you? Have you maintained your nightwear standards though pregnancy, nursing and child rearing?

How Geekymummy got her boobs back

Almost 4 years have gone by during which my body has been through pregnancy, nursing, another pregnancy, and more nursing. Before they fulfilled their mammalian destiny, I had always thought of my boobs as no more than attractive accessories, subtle embellishments to elegant outfits.

OK, who am I kidding, they were adornments to be flaunted to their greatest advantage in wonderbras and teeny T shirts. Then along came the babies and I realized what marvelous but bizarre organs they truly were. Source of nourishment and comfort to my babies, and cause of such mixed emotions in me; pride (how productive I am, how well my baby is growing) angst (am I making enough milk, do I have thrush in my nipples, am I leaking everywhere, am I making enough milk?) and embarrassment (ever accidentally sprayed a fellow customer at starbucks with your breastmilk?)

In the very back of my underwear draw sit delicate flimsy brassieres from those long ago times. At the front of my underwear drawer sit washed out heavy duty nursing bras that have now, apparently, served their time.

Geekybaby has decided that he is ready to quit nursing. Ever since he tasted his first real food he has become less and less interested, until at last, he squirmed away from my embrace as I attempted his bedtime feed, and reached instead for the books on the nightstand. "I want bedtime stories, Mum, not breastmilk" he seems to be saying.

I, however, don't feel ready, and I am sad to break this bond with my baby. I nursed Geekygirl 'til she was 14 months old, stopping when I got pregnant with Geekybaby. I had intended to nurse him at least this long, or longer, blithely assuming that he would continue to want this source of motherly goodness for as long as it was available. I had always thought that quitting would be my decision, and that it would be hard for him, not hard for me. This is a bittersweet milestone that I didn't see coming. A reminder to slow down, enjoy each moment, because kids grow up too fast.

But there is a shiny side to this coin, my voracious middle of the night nurser now sleeps right through the night. As my body is no longer grabbing every last nutrient to turn into milk the spring is returning to my step, and the bags are retreating from under my eyes. Could it be that my body is finally my own again? It has been so long as a host or food supply to another being that I can hardly recall how that feels. Boobs, you have done a truly marvelous job, and I think it is time for you to retire in style and return to your original calling of looking cute under tight sweaters. You've been through quite a lot in the intervening years though, so may need a tiny little bit of help. I hear the lingerie department at Bloomingdales calling!

the most (un)natural thing in the world

Breastfeeding: a natural, beautiful, nourishing harmony between mother and child. One of the things I love the most about mothering an infant.

Pumping at work: a bizarre symbiosis between a woman trying not to get breastmilk on her 'dry clean only' suit pants, and a rhythmically groaning device. A device with many small, yet critical parts that can easily be misplaced. The thing I love the least about mothering an infant.

Don't get me wrong, I am very grateful that I am able to make enough milk to feed my child, but I am disorientated by this intrusion of the biology of motherhood into the fabric of my work day.

Pumping at work leaves me feeling anxious and vulnerable. Will there be enough milk? Will someone ignore the sign on my office door and barge in on me in all my pump bra and plastic cone clad glory? Will I forget to rebutton a critical part of of my attire after pumping and inadvertantly expose myself to my coworkers? Will I knock the bottle of expressed milk across my computer keyboard?- try explaining that one to your IT department.

So, although my breastpump has proved to be a sturdy and reliable partner in my efforts to remotely feed my children, I have fantasies of the day that I no longer need it. Inspired by the printer demolition scene in the movie 'office space', I dream of taking it to a remote location and beating it to a pulp of valves and wires.