by Deborah L. Robinson

Created on: November 13, 2008   Last Updated: December 25, 2008

THE FLOW OF LOVE*

I think that I shall never see a sight more beautiful than a baby at mommy's breast - tiny head nestled into the crook of a tender, maternal arm; each one's eyes locked on the other's like two lovers enthralled in complete and total adoration. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Well, before you get lulled asleep by the violins now playing in your head along with visions of Madonna and Child, let me give you the rest of the picture which may not seem quite as divine.

I breast-fed my only child for two and a half years. During this time he learned to do all kinds of tricks while suckling, which my breasts - stretched like taffy - would have vehemently protested had they been able to speak. It's just not cool to try to turn your body 180 degrees while attached to mom's nipple with a suction pull that would put Hoover or Kirby to shame. To give you some idea of just how strong this suction is, I will share with you the eloquent words of a friend I coached through her first attempt at breastfeeding: "That child latched on to my tit so hard I thought I was going to have to break his jaw to get him off!"

And if this wasn't enough, around the age of five months, sharp little razors began to sprout from my child's gums, known in the non-nursing world as teeth. A teething tot, seeking to ease the discomfort of sore, swollen gums, considers any item that lands in its mouth fair game for gnawing. Mom's nipples, already over-taxed, are no exception. This atrocity I'm sure was discussed at the Geneva Convention under types of torture not to be permitted, ever. My support group of veteran feeders, whom I consulted about this malady, assured me there was no malicious intent on behalf of my bouncy, baby boy. However, I took issue with this counsel upon noticing a pattern for how these little shocks were delivered: He'd bite, I would yelp, he would smile.

Then there were the times when, due to unforeseen circumstances, baby and mom were separated past the time of the next feeding. In eager readiness and anticipation of their duty, mom's feeding sacks became filled to capacity as though they would burst. A steady trickle of liquid leaked out all over the front of her attire leaving two big milk-soaked spots. The searing stares of disgusted passersby paled in comparison to the painful throbbing caused by the dreadful "E" word: engorgement. I prefer to call it "enragement" since this is what happens when the breasts, now angry at mom for not reaching the source of relief

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