A Self Deprecating Story

That's right. I said "deprecating," not something else. Don't worry, this isn't yet another story about poop. But it IS a story about boobs. Sort of.

So far, the most trialling aspect of caring for a three week old while keeping a two year old entertained comes during the feedings. Button is a breeze to take care of MOST of the time when she's awake. She doesn't mind lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, for shortish period of times, which is a blessing. As I'm sure I've mentioned before, this is a completely foreign notion to us. Gabe could only be placed under his little baby gym thing when he was already asleep. Otherwise, he shrieked and screamed. Because I can put her down from time to time, I'm able to give Gabe my undivided attention, and that makes him happy.

There are, however, some of those moments when I simply can't pay attention to Gabe like he wants because the baby needs to be fed or calmed down. To deal with this problem, I've struck on something of an ingenious system that I'm almost positive nobody has ever thought of before (that was a joke).

While I'm holding the baby on my rocking chair, I encourage Gabe to grab a book or his blankie and come up on my lap, too, either to snuggle and watch shows or to flip through his book. The problem is, this requires me to use my "feeding hand" to engage Gabe, making it impossible for me to hold Button's bottle and her at the same time. So, instead of cradling Button in my left arm, as I usually do when I feed her, I put her down on a pillow that covers the armrest and my lap and feed her with my left hand while I deal with Gabe with my right.

I know. Confusing description. I really wanted a picture to go along with it, but Libby's never home when I'm actually doing this, and the cats have a TERRIBLE sense of S Curves and the Rule of Thirds, so I don't let them get close to the camera anymore because their "art" offends my better sensibilities.

Basically, I'm holding the baby on a pillow such that her head ends up pretty close to my armpits (and, yes, I've already considered the fact that I might be giving my child some weird, Kevin Kline's character from "A Fish Called Wanda," B.O. obsession--but I DO wear deodorant all the time, so hopefully she'll grow up to appreciate the musky freshness of Right Guard's "Xtreme Powerstripe: Arctic Refresh" instead, which would at least be a hygienic fascination), with my arm running down her left side and her right side held against my chest.

Now, this would actually be a pretty natural posture if I were breast feeding. You know how I know this? Now we come to the self deprecating part of the story. Yesterday, after I had finished feeding her and put down her bottle, and while I was turning pages for Gabe, our little Button tried to suckle on my man boob.

Gross, right? More than a little disturbing, too, I might add. But there you have it. Kids are inappropriate.

And, in my defense, I don't have BIG man boobs, so it's not like they are the most inviting things to infants. I have MAYBE an A cup. MAYBE. But there it is. A baby's hunger knows no discrimination, I guess. All of a sudden, I felt a little mouth gumming at the side of my masculintittie.

Needless to say, I freaked out just a little, but I made sure not to show it to Gabe because, you know, I don't want to give him the wrong impression. It's NOT OK to react too strongly when you're in a situation that, for all intents and purposes, strikes at the core of pretty much every aspect of gender identity and personal appropriateness that I can imagine. These situations have to be handled with aplomb and poise.

So I hastily slid him off my lap, into a confused little pile on the floor, grabbed the bottle, fed her, and took a mental shower to wash away all the weirdness.