My teenage children have given me a time limit on the whole breastfeeding business. Their consensus is that I only have a few more months to nurse their little sister. Should I exceed that time, I will no longer be publicly acknowledged and be thenceforth referred to as “Woman of the Woods.”
In this case, I’m not overly concerned about their opinions. I proudly nursed the three of them-now 18, 16, and 13-for about a year and a half respectively. It was a wonderful experience and we established a loving bond. But they admit it’s somehow different with this baby. They are much older and painfully self-conscious during any away-from-home lactation episode. It isn’t natural for a 46-year-old woman with a squirming baby on her lap to be unfastening her bra strap at the Department of Motor Vehicles while her very mature daughter is attempting to get a driver’s license. The mere sight of me could cause dozens of onlookers to fail their written tests.
I point out that discreetly revealing a few fibers of my sturdy, white Leading Lady (actual brand name of nursing bra) is certainly no worse than that unsmiling woman in line who deliberately displays much of her black-and need I say, very unsupportive-bra for all the world to see. Besides, I think she’ll live to regret that spider tattoo on her chest. Someday, when she has a baby, she’ll be begging the tattoo guy to add Wilbur the pig in hopes of creating a happier scene from Charlotte’s Web.
I enjoy nursing and, interestingly enough, it’s particularly rewarding at my age. Everyone keeps asking me if I’m on medication because I’m noticeably more cheerful and speak to everyone, not just the baby, in an irritating, high-pitched voice. I guess it’s the bra talking, but I inexplicably break into show tunes. Sadly, I have lost several close friends from this behavior. Yes, many of them are also in their late 40s. They’re not lactating and instead having hot flashes that prompt them to throw coffee cups and use very bad language. They’re growing beards that Honest Abe Lincoln would be proud of. They’re taking great interest in the wine section of the supermarket. I see them because the liquor aisle isn’t far from the disposable diapers. They may pity me being saddled with another kid at my age, but they hate me for my estrogen levels.
Actually, I don’t see a particular breastfeeding timeframe as an issue. Some mothers never nurse their babies. Others nurse for a very short time. And there are those select few who meet junior for a quick nip through the chain-link fence at kindergarten. I make no judgments. It’s a personal decision. But I continue to breastfeed this beautiful, and still-technically, baby. And I know it won’t be too much longer because she’s already admiring the large gallon milk containers in the refrigerator. Admittedly, I can’t compete with that.
Perhaps I will risk wearing the title “Woman of the Woods.” Besides, I rather like the picture of myself as Snow White scattering crumbs to little squirrels and other woodland creatures. Okay, I understand what my teenage children really mean. They intend to frighten me with an image more like that of Jodie Foster in Nell. However, I must remind them to be careful about what they wish for.
Sooner or later, the curtain will go down on the Leading Lady and a certain amount of unpleasantness may ensue. First, I’ll be buying a black bra-okay, mine with lots of underwire. I’ll join my friends in the hot-flashing stage and, like them, beat the minivan with a golf club when it doesn’t start. My voice will deepen much lower than Carol Channing’s and I’ll be shopping for razors with three blades. And I’ll put a real spider in my daughter’s bed if she gets a traffic violation. In the meantime, I need to nurse the baby to sleep. Keep your thoughts to yourself and maybe I’ll lend you the car keys.