Let’s talk boobies.
Breasts, milk jugs, tiggle biggles, titties, melons, cans, hooters, gazangas, knockers, tatas, high beams, torpedoes, fun bags, the girls, mammary glands.
As entertaining as it is to prattle off various versions of voluptuousness, it’s nothing compared to breastfeeding a toddler.
Confession, my daughter is sixteen months old and still on the nipple, the one attached to my areola. Yes, at my house, every day is happy hour. There is milk on tap, quite literally, and my toddler is an expert at sidling up to the bar.
As a result of our extended nursing, I’ve learned breastfeeding a toddler is an entirely different experience than nursing a newborn. Gone are the days of tube feeding, constant tears (mine, not hers), latch issues, lengthy feeding sessions, and second guessing every little thing (me, not her).
Instead we’ve entered a new phase, one that’s a pinch painful (pun intended), yet playfully priceless.
These days, we have our nursing routine down pat. I almost always play the submissive, lying flat on my back, shirt hiked up high, breasts exposed with my head resting on a pillow provided by my daughter. How thoughtful of her. The tiny tot on the other hand has a number of different poses in her arsenal, which I’ve taken the liberty of naming.
The Zen involves my child focused solely on the task at hand with little movement outside of subtle suckling. It’s our most peaceful pose, the one where I get to stroke her back and kiss the soft downy layer of hair on her head. It’s also the pose we engage in the least.
Instead, we play Doctor, one of my daughter’s favorite positions. She studies my mug and happily jabs her little fingers into my facial orifices. My job is to name what she’s prodding: nose, eyes, mouth, ear, teeth. It’s educational and intrusive. A word of wisdom, keep your peepers pulled tightly shut or you will take a finger to the cornea, and god forbid you haven’t filed those nails.