Everything you never wanted to know about my boobs

If you want to read about the 27 3/4 months I spent as a hotel, you are more than welcome to go check them out here, here and here. Today, however, I would like to talk about the 25 months I spent as a restaurant.

Kid One: Born big and juicy and fat. Nursed like a rock star from the get go. He was the poster child for the La Leche League. My friend and I had our babies right at the same time, and both breast-fed, and we pumped together during the kids' afternoon nap. Imagine, if you will, two cows at a dining room table. We could fill a table full of little baggies of milk in, like, 20 minutes. It was almost gross, we had so much milk. We made milk bags, milk ice-cubes, milk popsicles, everything.

My plan was to nurse for a year.

I worked, full time, when 1of3 was little. My husband also worked, just at night. We rotated night time feedings, him taking the 2-in-the-morning-ish one, because that's when he got home from work. Our son couldn't care less if he had a bottle or a boobie. They warned me that he'd prefer a bottle if we introduced it; they lied. He was cool with me, he was cool with dad. He was the best baby ever.

When he was about 5 months old, someone started stealing cash out of the basement office I worked in, so the management installed a video camera to try and catch the thief. The video camera went right over the safe, which was conveniently located right next to the only outlet in the whole basement. My choices were this: Pump on camera or stop pumping. Guess which one I chose. 1of3 took to formula right away. I think he preferred it, really. He was one of those babies that couldn't handle dairy or broccoli or beans or eggs or almost anything I ate. Once we busted out some soy formula, his tummy felt much better. After a week or so of working all day, coming home, trying to pump solid, red boulders, and leaking all over my work shirts, I just threw in the towel. He couldn't have cared less.

Kid Two: Born healthy and happy and itty bitty. Didn't latch on quite as well. I mean, he was ok, it just wasn't awesome, you know? And he totally preferred one boob. And he totally couldn't (and still can't) pay attention to anything for more than 32 seconds at a time. He'd be all, "Boobies!" and a second later he'd be all "Spot on the wall!" and then a second later he'd be all, "Nap!"

My plan was to nurse for a year.

Fucking snacker.

My milk ducts started to back up. I had to pump almost full time, because, see, he's get my milk all flowing and then flat out refuse to nurse. Shit hurts, yo. Pumpedy pump pump pump. He would fuss with me, just a little, but almost every time he nursed. He never nursed for more than a minute or two on either boob, but for sure not on the right. This left me with one awesome DD boobie and one awesome C boobie. And the milk ducts eventually got totally blocked and totally infected.

My husband had no clue what I was talking about. The kid ate just fine for him. The kid never fussed for him. Grrr. One day, when 2of3 was 4 months old and particularly hideous, I said screw it. I said, 'To hell with it, I'm giving this kid a bottle.'

He sucked down a 9 ounce bottle of formula in Less than a Minute.

The kid was starving. The kid hated nursing. I never, ever once tried to nurse him after that day. I pumped out the milk I had to in order to kill the pain and threw it out. He was perfect after that.

Kid Three: Born happy and healthy and little. Had a ton of complications at birth that got her one awesome night in the penthouse suite of the hospital, the NICU. Don't think that bill didn't make our head spin. But this was kid three. No one was giving her a bottle, damn it.

My plan was to nurse for a year.

The first day I got to have her with me, she nursed for 8 hours STRAIGHT. I am not exaggerating. She loved my boobies more than anyone ever has. I let her, because, well, she'd just spent the night in the NICU, and I was worried. In the next day or two, the doctors for some reason I can't remember (she wasn't pooping or peeing or some bullshit) told me I had to supplement her. Fuck you, I'm not giving her a bottle. No way.

And then Gigi and Auntie N came to visit. And then I realized that Auntie N giving her a bottle would be a fabulous way to bond. So, I caved, and her auntie got to give her a bottle. Which was so sweet I could have died. And that was the end of the bottles. I was full-time at home, so dad never needed to feed her. I didn't ever leave her side, so she never really saw a bottle again.

Her first birthday came. By then I was so fucking over it, there are no words. Josh and I were split up and I wasn't so keen on anyone touching me. This kid would not stop. She was eating ice cream and hot dogs and shit; there was no need to keep nursing her.

She had different ideas.

She nursed until she was, oh, god, 17 months or so. I have never been so ready to quit anything in my whole life.

To this very day, she is unnaturally drawn to my boobies. When she gets really upset, or really tired, she doesn't want anything but to nuzzle in on my chest. I know she doesn't remember why, but I also know that they are still her security blanket.

I said all of that to say this: Every kid is different. Every mom is different. Every experience anyone ever has nursing a child is different. Just look at me: same person, three totally different experiences. It doesn't always work. And that is totally ok. What matters, in the end, is that the kid gets fed. Sometimes, it's ok to quit. Sometimes, it's important to quit. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something.

Ooops!