Being Lazy has its Perks

Posted on | March 4, 2010 | 5 Comments

I’ll admit, even when I was pregnant, breastfeeding terrified me. That’s probably because both my sister and a new mom friend shared with me “the Gospel” on breastfeeding which included the fact that “Oh, BTW, it will hurt everytime you feed him like you’ve been dipped in hot oil… but only for like two weeks.” I thought they were joking. I mean, why would anyone feed a child eight or nine times a day if every time felt like a dip in hot oil? Turns out, they were right. Breastfeeding was NOT a beautiful and magical experience like I saw in the movies.

Every time J latched on for at least the first two weeks (and then again in our post-nipple shield era), I found myself writhing in pain and stomping my foot on the floor in a vain attempt to crack a hole in the hardwood floors and just go ahead and sink into hell. But I did it. I fed that milk sucker on demand for two whole weeks of agony. I just kept thinking “Two weeks. It will only hurt for two weeks.” That was a bald faced lie.

I had another friend who swore to me during my pregnancy that breastfeeding absolutely did not hurt “if you do it right.” I kind of want to just go and stare at her a while until she caves under the pressure and tells the truth because I swear there wasn’t a chance in hell of me doing it “wrong” with the aide of the plastic nazi. And yet it hurt. HORRIBLY. And for longer than two weeks.

To add insult to injury, J wasn’t one of those sweet, cute babies who gently stroke the breast or pat it while nursing. Nope. My son is a pincher. My boobs look like a war zone. There are crescent moon shaped cuts from his nails; there are bruises six ways from Sunday. It seriously looks like I’ve been assaulted by some type of wild animal. Which is exactly how J nurses. You’d think he was one of a litter of seven because he’s constantly fighting off imaginary challengers to his right to nurse.

So why in the hell do I continue to breast feed? It hasn’t been easy, I can assure you. The end of the plastic nazi was tough. Pumping from my office or in public restrooms on the way to and from depositions is often unsanitary and always depressingly difficult to remember to do. Fighting off the repeated kicks to my c-section scar really sucks at night. And the bruises and cuts are not pleasant to look at. From the minute I started breastfeeding, I always said I’d only do it until J was six months old because that’s what the Academy of Pediatric Know It All’s suggest. Yet here we are, me and my six and a half month old baby, still breastfeeding.

I’ve thought long and hard about why I haven’t quit yet and what it boils down to is, I’m simply too lazy to stop breastfeeding. Seriously. That might sound bad, but whatever. My kid doesn’t mind. I’m L-A-Z-Y. I don’t want to have to carry formula around with me; half the time I don’t even want to feed him solid foods… I rely on daycare to do that during the week. I don’t want to have to get up in the middle of the night and heat a bottle if J gets hungry… it’s so much easier to just whip out a boob and go back to sleep. I should really be ashamed of myself for being so lazy, but I’m too lazy to care. He’s benefitting from my laziness so it’s really a win-win situation. At this rate I’ll probably just continue to breastfeed until he looks up at me one day and says “Mom, can I start using a plate like all the rest of the kids in third grade?”

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