My milkers.
My ta-tas.
My baby feeders.
My breasts are front and center - they're the topic of almost all my conversations, and when I can get away with it, they are hanging loose and fancy-free, air-drying in my topless state.
I am Breast-Feeder, here me roar.
Or, rather, hear me scream out in pain.
Because, right along with my breasts is the inevitable pain that has now encompassed every two to three hours of my life around the clock.
Now, let me back up and re-iterate yet again how paramount breast-feeding was for me as a mother.
Just like I knew I wanted a natural, intervention-free labor and delivery, I knew I wanted to be an exclusive breast-feeder.
So, when Ella was all of 30 minutes old, imagine my great joy when she latched on like a pro.
The midwives were impressed. She was, and is, a "champion nurser," they said.
My milk came in two days later, and other than some engorgement pain and a brief hunger strike, Ella continued to nurse like a pro.
She was so good that she gained weight way ahead of the charts and was taking in an average of 2 ounces in 20 minutes - a fact that so mystified my midwives at my one-week post-partum appointment that they actually called in other people to come and watch me nurse her.
Little Ella didn't fall far from our tree, it seemed. Girlfriend loves her food.
And, honestly, she's kept right on loving it ever since that day. She's a voracious nurser. Heck, she's an aggressive nurser.
For such a little baby, she can drain a boob with the best of them.
Blessedly, my body has responded, and I produce plenty of milk. I joked with a friend that I could nurse all the children on our Navy base, at the rate I was going.
As the midwife said, "You were born to breastfeed."
I wish that made me proud. I wish that made feel better about this whole thing, actually.
Except, right now, it doesn't.
Because my child is such a great nurser that she's rendered me a wimpering, snotty-nosed mess.
She's literally torn my nipples up with her appetite.
While I've also gotten the regular soreness many women report in their initial weeks breast-feeding, I've also got open wounds on both my nipples - big enough injuries that Ella has ended up ripping off the scabs while nursing multiple times.
We're almost three weeks into nursing, and we're just now at the point where, when she latches on, I no longer burst into tears, or, on a particularly bad day, scream out obscenities.
I do, however, still feel like someone is taking a razor blade to my nipple during the first few minutes of her latching on and sucking hard to start the milk flow.
My husband, when he's home, has had to hold my hand through the first few minutes of each nursing session, reminding me to breathe, telling me it will get better.
I've cried every day on the phone to my mother - staring at my breasts covered in lanolin, wondering how long it would take my open wounds to become feeling-less battle scars.
I've ridden myself with guilt that, right now, I don't enjoy feeding my daughter at all.
In fact, I lost it last night when she wanted to eat every hour on the hour.
My husband couldn't console her. No one could console her.
She only wanted me. And my breasts. And my sore, barely recovering nipples.
So, I cried. Because I didn't want to nurse her. Because I just needed a break. Because I needed another hour or so to work up the courage to latch her back on and feel the stabbing pain that happens when a little baby's strong jaws suck on an open wound.
Still, eventually, I gave in. I let her eat the whole evening away. All while I prayed that the pain would go away. That I'd lose feeling completely, if that's what it took.
Other women have told me that I'm not alone. Our pediatrician, who had four children of her own and experienced "torn nipples" just like I have. The audiologist, who examined Ella's hearing while I nursed her and lamented that the same thing happened to her. My mother, who swore it was a nightmare nursing me until her skin finally toughened up enough to take it.
And my sister-in-law, who wouldn't leave the house for more than two weeks after having her son because, while she was comfortable nursing in public, she wasn't comfortable nursing in such pain in public.
I knew exactly what she meant.
Literally days before, I had to breast-feed Ella in a Target changing room, and it was all I could not to yelp out in pain and scare away all the other patrons.
This process has not been easy - and trust me, I never had any pre-conceived notions that it would be.
I just didn't know I'd have open sores on my nipples for weeks on end. I just didn't know that I'd be experiencing a pain worse than labor at two-hour intervals for up to 40 days after having Ella.
I just didn't know.
***
All that being said, I am, and will continue, to exclusively breast-feed my daughter.She will not receive even a bottle of pumped breast-milk or a pacifier until 40 days after her birthday, and even then, she will mostly be a breast baby.
I believe in it so strongly that I will not give up.
And thank God for that. Because if I even had an ounce less resolve, one look at my marred nipples would have me reaching for the bottle and the formula quicker than you can say "attachment parenting."
Still, it hurts. No one ever told me how badly.
Now, I know. It hurts.
And it's not because she has an improper latch. And it's not because of my milk supply. And it's not because there's anything really, truly wrong with either Ella or me.
It's just that I have certifiable nipple trauma - damage that will, eventually, harden up and toughen and fade away.
Damage that I'm encouraged to look past so I can see the precious fact that we were blessed to be able to feed her this way at all.
So, I do. I try. I keep right on plugging as I pop her on the boob every two hours and a litter her little nursing face with my own tears of pain.
And, like I said, yesterday, it started to get just a wee bit better.
Perhaps it was wishful thinking. But for now, it's all I've got in this war against my boobies.
***
Happy Friday!
