A friend said I probably needed to post about my boobies, so here we are.
I have been thinking about my boobs probably as often as most men think of sex since I was in grade school. I lusted after training bras years before they were necessary. (Are training bras ever actually necessary?) I waited in anxiety through 5th and 6th grades for my boobs to come, and was sure they never would. When they came in my 7th grade year, as I was assured by a family of well endowed women all around me that they surely would (and that I would hate them - right again), I got called fat by jealous, flat chested 8th graders. So, logically, I started starving myself, got rid of the boobs I had so desperately longed for, and started fretting about whether it was possible to be rail thin and have big boobs.
When I let go of my need for rail thinness, my boobs came back in spades, and have remained my faithful companions ever since. Actually, I've rather liked them ever since.
And now I have a 17-month old who points at my boobs, giggles, and says either "nuh nuh" or "mine." In the past year and a half, my boobies have finally found their purpose, and what a trip it continues to be.
I'll never forget Hannah's first latch, shortly after her birth. In the coziness of our bed, after a solid hour of skin-to-skin eye gazing, her cord was clamped and she was placed at my breast. Our midwives and our doula coached me on how it should feel, how it shouldn't feel, what her mouth should look like, etc. None of this had I considered for even a second while pregnant. The moment of her first latch, I realized the amazing journey Hannah and I were about to take together, the journey of nursing.
That journey has included five bouts of mastitis. Five! WTF? Who gets mastitis FIVE times with the same baby? The girl who has had her boobies on her mind since she was 6, that's who.
The first time, I thought death was imminent. Hannah was a week old, my body was broken open from birth and had a lot of healing to do, so I couldn't fight off a thing. Bout # 2 came when Hannah was 3 weeks old, and this time I knew what was happening to me, and while I cognitively knew I wouldn't die from it, it sure felt possible. When it happened again at 7 months, it tested my will to live.
But seriously, after that, I was just sure I was in the clear. The stats, even for well-endowed women with abundant milk supplies like mine, were in my favor. Not so soon, sister. Bout # 4 came just before Christmas. No flu symptoms, not nearly as much pain during nursing. I just got my antibiotics and got on with my life. Got on with my life until this week, when bout # 5 came.
Now it's personal. I think this monster we call mastitis is personally out to get me.
This time, it amounted to three days off with the slight inconvenience of remembering to take my antibiotics. No pain, no sickness, just an infected boobie. Wierd? I'll say. My doctor is stumped - I'm like a mastitis circus freak. So, they tested for anemia and thyroid issues which could be contributing to repeated infection - no dice. My milk culture will come back in a few days, and who knows what we'll find.
Being who I am, of course, I have to find a deep, spiritual significance for everything. Nursing has been a meditative practice for me, a time when I am forced to be utterly present and still. I am overcome with love when I look down at Hannah's big doe eyes gazing at me while she reaches a chubby, sticky hand up to play with my face or my hair. I physically feel myself relax and slow down into the present moment with my babe at my breast. I am proud to be a nursing mom, because I know I am doing something so beneficial for my girl, something that nourishes her body, yes, but also her soul.
If there could be a test to my will to breastfeed, 5 bouts of mastitis would be it. I'm just waiting to be asked "why don't you just stop nursing? She's almost 1 1/2." To that, I will answer, "it's not time yet." This journey of ours is so not done. Hannah still needs it, and frankly, so do I. It's soul food for us both. It's been a challenge to my body, a challenge that reminds me to find out how to take exceptional care of myself. (Obviously I'm still learning.)
How often do we want to give up on a million different things? But we don't, not if they matter to us. Two things will remind me never to give up on anything, and that I can do anything: birthing Hannah at home, naturally, and nursing her when it was hella hard.
I bow to your power, mastitis. Now please leave me alone.
