Lactation Fun Cont’d

July 9, 2010

Turns out there was absolutely nothing wrong with my latch, my boobs, or my baby – the lactation consultant sent an exhaustive debriefing to our pediatrician, who is happy to wait until Lorelei’s next scheduled appointment in early September to see her again. She seems happy and healthy, and her scrawny Kermit legs appear to be slowly morphing into those desirably chubby baby thighs. (The larger societal issue of why we want our little girls plump only until about the age of 4 or 5, at which point it becomes the bonier the better, is best left to another, more socially aware, blog.)

It’s so funny how your breasts essentially enter the public domain as soon as you have a baby. Then again, the fact that terms like “mucus plug” and “bloody show” – not to be confused with “bloody good show,” for the Anglophiles among you – start entering everyday conversations late in pregnancy should have tipped me off that it was no longer business as usual.

In the meantime, I have braved the scary, Kubrickian breast pump so that Eric can give Lorelei a bottle every once in a while. I was initially worried that she’d reject a rubber nipple, given her general disdain for pacifiers, but she downed that first bottle in record time. It also seems that she’s gained a new level of respect for Eric; he’s no longer just the guy with the pinky she can suck on until it’s time to be handed off to me, aka “The Lady with the Milk.”


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