Apparently it is my lot to take the blush off the rose

Okay, just as my disposition and discomfort led me to write about pregnancy less than reverently, so it might be for this whole breast thing. Yea, you know, the feeding of the tot. You know all those pictures in your head (maybe they're only in my head) of the beatific mother nurturing her child with her own milk, blah blah blah, Mother Mary and all that? How we're all supposed to have this fabulous experience in a back-to-the-earth kind of way? What no-one tells you is that there are all these things that can go awry.

Take, for instance, a case like mine in which there is a touch of over-production. One would think, if one didn't know, that over-abundance would be a good thing. They would be WRONG. That extra milk needs somewhere to go or it just builds up like an over-inflated tire, except that you're made out of flesh instead of mercerized rubber, and it hurts when there's not enough out-flow.

But there's this vicious circle in which you relieve the pressure in desperation (by any means possible--nursing that new chimp at the zoo, for instance), and your boobs, which have developed a mind completely independent of you, think to themselves, "Hoorah, I'm making enough milk, let's make more!" Which puts you back in the same cranky predicament as you were in before: melons as hard as melons and a tot who in no way can eat the equivalent.

There are other problems too: for instance, I have this joyous and adorable little boy who just happens to want to eat every 45 minutes during the day. No, really. But at night he settles into a regular 3-hour routine, and my knockers, still in 45-minute production mode, keep pumping away. What. The. Fuck. Boobs?

This is my crabby, I've-had-no-sleep-and-the-boy-appears-to-be-dieting-today boob tragedy. In truth, it's an amazing thing. I love feeding Tiny. It's a special and close and quiet activity that couldn't be any more personal, and I love to look at his sweet little moon face while he's gnoshing away and gazing about. He makes cooing sounds which would melt any curmudgeon's heart, and when I'm least expecting it, he turns into this little wild breast-hunter where he gnashes his gums and snorts and snarls while looking for that sneaky, elusive nipple.

But today I'm a sight tetchy, and because he's a chip off the old block and already proving to be somewhat contrary, he's decided he's just not that interested in what the diner is serving today. So I sit, trying not to be terribly moved by his adorable Churchillian expressions and hoping that he'll really come to bat soon. Little rascal.

Phew! He's ringing the butler's bell. Thank god.