Thinking back to when I first announced my pregnancy and my breasts became a subject of conversation (and decision regarding them) for everyone I started to wonder what the heck I got myself into.
Oh that’s right, my husband and I had an excellent time at one of my longtime best friend’s weddings in North Carolina. It was a fantastic, warm beachside occasion—filled with many cheerful toasts to the happy couple. So good in fact we forgot ourselves (and that’d I’d gone off the pill recently) that fateful night.
Fast-forward almost thirty-eight weeks or eight-point-five pregnant months later and out pops Roman, my little boy, at the beginning of the last snow storm this year. He was thrust on me (as part of my birth plan) not seconds after his arrival with one nurse ripping down my gown, another fidgeting with his tiny mouth and attaching it to my nipple, my doctor dutifully sewing below and a loving husband at my side (crying). Reality set in as the first feeding commenced.
I silently had agreed to breastfeed throughout many conversations in my pregnancy. It was the PC thing to do after all. I felt like if I didn’t “just agree,” well then why was I even having a baby? And secretly wondered if I too selfish.
My thoughts ran in circles sometimes while others told me why I should or when I was alone in private.
First, I couldn’t fathom being the sole provider to a little human. Then my thoughts ran rampant with concerns for my body. I was vain, I knew that about myself and knew that the last bit of weight hangs on until breast feeding is stopped. And I knew that I’d want to be like Heidi Klum and get back to my former skinny self in four weeks flat. It’s not like I had a runway engagement to quickly attend to but still. I also wondered how if it would affect my breasts.
Would they get all stretched out without me being able to do anything about it? It’s not like there is a diet, homeopathic remedy or breast exercises to get them back into shape after. Right? Plus I didn’t want to pump at work. My work days were already nine to ten hours long and I hardly ever took lunches, not to mention the fact that I typically had lunch meetings two or so times a week. I wanted to be able to leave the office at a reasonable time to get home to my baby, not take a lunch and pump prolonging my day. I didn’t want to make excuses to my male counterparts. I didn’t want to get left out of a meeting or leave a meeting mid-way to pump.
