Oh Holy Boob

Ella was four weeks old yesterday.

And we finally made it to church for the first time.

The past few Sundays, we just haven't been able to get it together with a newborn.

But this week, we reached for the stars, dreamed big, and roused our infant early.

Look, I never said we were smart. I just said we were hopeful.

Anyway, pretty quickly, I knew things weren't perfect when she wasn't interested in eating for more than 15 minutes, and then she semi-fussed in her car-seat all the way to church.

But with a little swaying, we shoosh-ed her right back to sleep, and things were looking great halfway through our service.

Then, another quarter of the way through, she began to stir. And, after opening one tiny little eye and peering up at me, I could see it coming: The newborn screech.

Thank God we sat on the aisle, because before you could say "Amen," I was out of there, diaper bag flying behind me.

I got out the doors and into the church's atrium before I realized I left our car keys back in our pew. With my husband.

I peeked into the cry room, but all the chairs were taken by yelling toddlers and even more tired-looking moms than me.

Meanwhile, Ella's cries were escalating. There was no way I was going back in that church. As it was, the glass doors between the church's atrium and the service inside were not going to do anything if she reached her DEFCOM-5 cries.

I was left with no choice; I ventured outside.

Diaper bag swinging at my side, baby whimpering, I walked behind the church desperate for a shaded place to calm my baby with - what else? - my milk-makers. Ella needed to nurse.

I was walking and swaying and shoosh-ing, and Ella was getting louder and louder - a true sign that she wanted to eat. And stat.

Finally, I found it.

Our small prayer garden, complete with a small pavilion with a couple of picnic tables. It was completely abandoned. No one was in sight.

It was perfect.

I plopped Ella in my lap, whipped my nursing cover over me, unhooked my bra, and gave my poor baby what works every time.

She latched on right away, and - maybe it was the prayer garden or the searing pain that happens when she latches on my left side still - but I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and turned my eyes up toward heaven, begging God to make the pain go away and quickly.

Finally, the pain started to lessen; my breathing returned to normal, and I opened my eyes.

Just in time to notice that I was in clear view of one of the giant glass windows located on the back half of our church, where, currently, I could see one of the church deacons, staring at me, unabashedly nursing my baby.

Oops.

***

Worse yet, about five minutes later, church let out, and I'd completely forgotten there was a back exit out the church.

Right by the prayer garden.

Ella kept nursing away, while at least half the congregation poured past me, perched on a picnic bench, dress obviously askew, nursing cover not masking the loud slurping and gulping and cooing noises Ella was making as she nursed and kicked her little feet just past the cover.

Several older gentlemen peered over and immediately averted their eyes; a couple women smiled lovingly at me. Another deacon walked by and guffawed. Loudly.

Honestly, I didn't even have the good sense to be slightly embarrassed. After all, God invented breast-feeding, and I was just doing what God intended me to do for my baby. All while spending a quite moment in a prayer garden. Covered as modestly as I could be, I might add.

It was almost sweet, my baby and I.

Until Ella, boob still in her mouth, burped. Loudly.

***

What can I say? Reverent, we are not.

But at least Ella can say she had her Sunday breakfast in a rather holy place. And she offered up a prayer of thanks in the only way she knows how.

A burp of praise.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

Open Flame and Breast-Feeding

Thanks to my new-found hobby known as breast-feeding, I have what could be described as an untoward amount of down-time on my hands.

After all, once I get Ella latched on, she's a prime-time chow-hound. She has the ability to eat for a solid hour - an impressive feat when you consider her stomach is smaller than a golf ball.

So, needless to say, I've taken to watching TV. Reading blogs. Picking up old magazines and flipping through them. Dozing off. Petting the dog with my foot. Texting and Tweeting. Scanning Facebook for who knows what. Attempting to pick up my husband's socks with my toes and chuck them at him.

I'm a woman of leisure, except for the fact that I'm rendered almost completely useless by the 7-pound wonder plodding away at my breast, eating her 10th meal of the day.

Still, even with all those distractions, sometimes, I get a little bored. A little tired. In other words, I'm unable to reach the remote, or my daughter has decided she only wants to be nursed in her rocker, which isn't located anywhere near a TV, computer, etc. in our home.

So, my mind wanders.

I begin to think about packing away my maternity clothes. I wonder if I can manage to do two whole loads of laundry tomorrow. And I ponder the ever-thought-provoking matter of whether or not I really should attempt to wear one of those little shorts romper thingies, as it's so blasted hot this summer that I'm pretty sure I'll sweat to death going outside in anything but my birthday suit and Ella in her Moby wrap, which is probably going to get me arrested and doesn't highlight my assets as it is.

This is my brain, breast-feeding, at 3:30 in the morning.

Which is why, last night, while spacing out between the real world and the dream world, soothed by Ella's little suck-suck-suck noises, I happened to glance over at the tag on my Boppy - the oddly shaped breast-feeding pillow I formerly mocked till I used it and now owe my second-born child to, I love it that much.

I was reading the Boppy's tag without thinking much of it. I was so out of it, my brain was on autopilot: See words. Read them.

Comprehension wasn't an issue. I was just performing a rote drill.

Until I came to enough to realize what I was reading.

"Notice: This article meets the flammability requirements of California Bureau of Home Furnishings Technical Bulletin 117. Care should be exercised near open flame or with burning cigarettes."

Um, excuse me?

Are you telling me my child is currently laying and eating on a pillow that could, at any moment, spontaneously combust?

Furthermore, what kind of breast-feeding antics do they think I'm going to be doing, roaming around with my Boppy and newborn near open flames?

I mean, that seems unnecessarily risky, bringing a brand new baby, plus one's own breasts, near un-reigned fire. You'd think even the most irresponsible of moms would think twice before dancing around, breast-feeding freely on her Boppy, near a roaring fire.

Then again, I just watched that new TLC fiasco, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding,while - you guessed it! - breast-feeding last night, and I can definitely see someone from that show rising to the challenge, if you will, of fire, bare breasts, and a baby on a Boppy.

And don't even get me started on the "burning cigarettes" warning. Because sadly, I'm sure there's some mother out there puffing away over her breast-feeding child, scattering ash onto her progeny's sweet head and stuffing his or her lungs full of deadly second-hand smoke.

Prime-time parenting, I tell ya.

Still, it re-affirmed a bit in me.

I wasn't endangering my child near open flames and cigarettes. Better yet, I didn't even have to be warned away from such risky behavior.

I have at least an ounce of common sense. Heck, I figured this one out without being told.

In other words, I couldn't be that bad of a mother.

After all, there have to be others out there that need that warning. That tag has to exist for a reason, right?

Somewhere, there's a woman currently swinging her infant about on a Boppy near a forest fire while flinging her cigarette ash hither and thither.

Meanwhile, I'm living on the edge by putting my baby down for a nap on her stomach and then watching her the entire time.

Welcome to the Danger Zone, people.

Where breast-feeding meets flammability, and good parenting requires more than putting down your cigarette.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!