I have a deep, dark confession to make… I… did not…

*Collective gasp, breaking glass, a horrified scream*

Yes, it’s true. No
boob for the baby. (Poor kid, so
deprived.) I did TRY the
breastfeeding. I worked with the
lactation consultant in the hospital. I
offered Chance ample opportunities to gnaw on my hooters. However, due to my being very ill right after
his birth and therefore getting a late start overall offering boobage, and except
for that one time where he latched on, Chance just didn’t want them. Spit ‘em out and gave me the bird.

But don’t worry, he still got the mommy goodness. I pumped. Turns out that was for the best too, because no matter how often I
pumped, no matter how much water I drank or how much food I ate, or how
frequently I utilized any of the techniques to maximize the breastmilk… I never produced more than 12oz in a
day. NEVER. (Don’t buy all the hype from the La Leche
League… there really are women who produce little or no breastmilk. I was one of them.) From the get go Chance was slurping down 18oz a day.

So he got both, mainly breastmilk with a supplement of
formula. He was thriving. I was… well I wasn’t thriving because pumping
can suck, but I was fine with it.  All

Why am I telling you all this? OK, you know that phase most babies go
through where they love the boob so much they have to share their love with the
world? You know, fondling, groping,
yanking mom’s shirt down in the middle of crowded places (the bigger the crowd
the better) as if to say, “See MY boobies?! Look at these boobs! I love these
things…they ROCK!”

Chance never went through that stage. Until now.

Suddenly, at two-years-old – long after most babies abandon
such activities – whenever I pick Chance up to carry him somewhere he’s
thrusting his hand down my cleavage (or the valley, as I call it; I don’t have
quite enough for cleavage).  And he keeps
it there, unless I forcibly remove his hand.  I don’t know if it’s just convenient for him or
what. AND he’s sometimes moving that
hand around, roughly, then grabbing the material and yanking it to the
side. In public. A lot!

Now, right after he was born, I wasn’t so concerned with the
modesty. I mean, I had just had a
roomful of strangers staring me full moon in the hoo-hoo. You know? What’s a little titty flashing after that? But that was two years ago! Since then a
sense of decorum has managed to work its claws back into my hoo-hoo showing

Maybe I am making it a little convenient. My blouses do tend to be a little
low-cut. Not hoochie-mama low-cut or
anything (not that there’s anything wrong with that; like I wouldn’t
occasionally sport the hoochie-mama look for special occasions if I had the cleavage – which I don’t; damn
it), but definitely lower than a t-shirt crew neck low-cut. Along with stretch marks and a shrunken
bladder, I inherited a thyroid condition from pregnancy. Anything on my neck in a certain area… drives me up the wall! 

Anyway, Chance has definitely been taking advantage of the
lowish-cut tops. There he goes, hanging
out in my boobs, exposing me to the world, all very cavalier. I just don’t get it. Why would this start now? I understand younger babies and their boobie
love affair – they’ve established a relationship, they’re commited. But Chance was
much more used to being cuddled at my neck than he was several inches
lower. I know boys like boobs as
playthings but does it really start this early? (He had smacked the girls a few times, too – same move he pulls on
Keen’s belly – I’m assuming to watch the jiggle (don’t worry, I nipped that one
in the… um… nip.) And then on top of the
grappling and my correlating soreness, I’ve also been finding OBJECTS in my
bra! Whatever’s in his grip when he goes
for the valley, Chance has been dropping into my bra. I usually wouldn’t even notice there was
anything in there until the end of the day. (Sue me, it happens.)

And that’s why I think I’ve finally figured out what he’s really doing. He’s using my cleavage, my little happy
valley, as a garbage receptacle! “Oh, hey Mom.  We’re going for a ride? OK, let me just get rid of this wadded paper
in my hand.” Or leaves. Or gummy food bits. Small rocks. Whatever.

I am the trash can. Coo coo ca choo.

(Maybe if I had managed to breastfeed he would treat the
ta-tas with a little more respect.)

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