An unexpected side effect has occurred from breastfeeding my children: the total and complete loss of ownership over my breasts. It’s something the parenting books don’t warn you about and nothing your mom friends talk about. The moment that tiny, precious, little leech first latches on you’ve officially handed over the deed.
You might be thinking, “This news isn’t surprising. When you choose to breastfeed of course you’re losing some control over your body”. I don’t mean while your breastfeeding. I mean afterwards…and for years.
My oldest son Noah’s favorite way to breastfeed was to wrap both arms around and hug the breast he was nursing on. He got used to associating cleavage with love and comfort. Anytime myself, or another woman, would pick him up his hand would automatically slide down the shirt and rest between the boobs. My sister was so surprised the first time he did this she almost dropped him. That’s when he was four. Thank God he’s outgrown it. He’s 13 now and we don’t have any collateral that a bail bondsman would find interesting.
My daughter Ruby’s violation of my boobs is less physical and more artistic. Anytime she draws a picture of Mom, usually for a school project, she draws me with two of the biggest hooters outside of, well, Hooters. They are also, typically, bigger than my head. I have to wonder if this is how she perceives me or if they truly are my most dominant feature. After visiting Young Artist Night at Ruby’s school, seeing a family portrait drawn by my little angel, and watching a Dad look back and forth from the picture to me and then chuckle, I think her skill at drawing to scale is more accurate than I’d like to admit.
I breastfed Violet for the least amount of time so she has the least amount of interest. I did pay for it with five months of the longest, loudest and most soul crushing colic, so I count that debt paid.
My youngest, Hank, is the worst offender. Maybe it’s because I nursed him the longest. Maybe it’s because he’s the least removed from nursing. Maybe he’s just a breast man.
Like any other man he loves to pinch, squeeze, punch, bite and honk them. He likes to talk to them, talk about them and use them as pillows, punching bags, stress balls and best friends. For a boy of three who hasn’t nursed for two years, that’s a lot dependency.
He takes a lot of generous liberty with these parts of MY body. Even still, I wouldn’t mind as much if he kept it behind closed doors. It’s when we’re in Costco and, after spotting his favorite snack, he screams out, “I want some Pirate Boobies!”, then reaches out and honks my boobs in front of a couple dozen fellow shoppers. That’s when I start to wonder if my husband has been giving the boy a few lessons.
We all know that little kids have no filters on their mouths, restraint over their actions or any sense of public shame. My youngest son has honed these attributes into real talents. He could use these gifts for good instead of evil but that would be too easy…on me and my boobs.
You are so not alone.
ReplyDeleteWe had a special word for them: "Boofs." The kids still use it some times. It's not like it's hard to figure out what they're talking about but at least it takes people a second or two, while we run away.
I am not what you'd call well-endowed, so my eldest who I think would still be nursing at 8 had I not cut her off from her serious dependency issue at 2.5, has been known to stare at random well-endowed women and has only just (hopefully) learned to stop commenting on their "boofs." One friend in particular usually has to redirect her interest when she's babysitting.