It’s not as bad as what happened to the people in Human Centipede, but for the past four weeks, I have been a Human Cow.
I am breastfeeding our baby, Max. He has been alive for 29 days and eats about once every two to three hours, for a total of 10 times a day. That means I’ve fed him some 290 meals in his four short weeks on Earth.
Max is a slow drinker.
I tell him I’m proud of him: “Look, Maxopotamous! You are so good at drinking milk!”
But the reality is that he lounges at the nipple. He roots around before latching on, and once he’s got a good grip, he takes forever to finish. His feeding sessions last about 30 minutes each.
While Max is eating, I try to do stuff like read a book or play a computer game — anything you can do (or sort of do) with one hand.
Right now, for example, I’m typing this blog post (very slowly) with my left hand while cradling Max with my right. I’m also conversing with my husband and a friend on Google Chat (again, very slowly).
The worst part about breastfeeding is the feeling of being trapped: Because Max gets hungry so often, I can’t be apart from him for more than a couple of hours.
Also, my clothes is always covered in milk; Max is a messy eater.
Still, it’s not all bad.
With bottle-feeding, you’d have no free hands, and you’d have to do it just as often. Also, breast milk is free.
Most of all, though, it’s nice to know I can provide the little guy some comfort in a world where everything is new to him. Sometimes, I look down at Max’s face when he’s drinking. I watch his changing expressions, and I listen to his tiny gulps, which become fewer in number as his hunger fades and he floats off to sleep.
I guess there are worse things than being a Human Pacifier.
This entry was started on May 14 and completed on May 19.