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.
Another fun position is the Wrestler. With her mouth still firmly attached to my nipple, the tiny human will successfully rotate 180 degrees around my body (per usual I’m lying on my back with her looming over me). She puts my head in a scissor hold with her chubby little thighs, elbows me in the gullet, and headbutts me in the face. It’s a [baby] eat [boob] world out there.
Similarly, there is the Yoga Pose, which involves my wee one doing the one legged tree stance, or maybe it’s warrior two, off my stomach. All I know is there are multiple appendages dangling mid-air, none of which belong to me. This position stretches my nipple beyond it’s normal limits. Thankfully, it doesn’t hurt, although it does make me wonder about the future of my breasts.
The Reader role is exactly what it sounds like. We nurse while perusing our favorite books, over and over and over. Sometimes singing is involved. Often, she will dismantle from the mountain tops long enough to turn the pages or point out things of varying interest. If you mistake her temporary dismount as a sign of completion, you’d be sorely mistaken.
One of our more social affairs is the Tea Party, where she brings her menagerie of stuffed animals to the event at hand. What’s a little boob without a boisterous bunny or blue baboon?
The Motorboat is the funniest pose, which truly needs no further description, and yet, I can’t resist. It’s similar to the first teenage fumblings, where a very eager individual launches themselves at the subject matter, in a concentrated effort to face plant those folds of flesh. My daughter literally hurls herself at my breasts like a moth to a flame. Of course, the motorboat almost inevitable turns into the raspberry.
The Raspberry makes me laugh. It also makes my kid laugh and anyone else who happens to be in the room with us. It’s an accidental burst of air blown onto the bosom resulting in a sound that mimics flatulence. Farts are funny and as soon as she discovers she can make those noises from a place other than her backside, she goes back and blows raspberry after raspberry on my bountiful and now bouncing boobs, amid a mountain of giggles from all involved.
Suffice to say, nursing a toddler has it’s moments, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Alright fine, maybe I’d take a new set of nipples when she’s done.