Breastfeeding and a bike.

Women are judgmental. Guys cringe. You're basically damned if you don't, and well... yeah, "damned if you don't" pretty much sums it up. Fortunately for me, I've been blessed to be able to nurse all of my children. I'd like to think that has something to do with their good bill of health and superior intelligence so far. Let's take a moment to relive the journey and reflect back on the ups and downs of breastfeeding. Isn't that what we're really all about here anyway people? Reflecting? Alright, get that confused look off your face and I'll explain.
They (whoever "they" are) say that breastfeeding is like riding a bike. Once you've done it, you never forget. What "they" so lovingly forgot to mention is that with each subsequent child the bike riding gets a teeny tiny bit more difficult. I like to compare it to riding a bike that's been in the garage for a few years, tires sagging and in serious need of $5,000 Brazilian implants... um, I mean a good air pump, yeah... air pump. Back to the bike... did I mention this sweet ride comes with a state of the art toddler seat attached to the back and a trailer hitched to the rear wheel? Yes, my friends, we are stylin'. You see, the infamous "they" also like to make you think that breastfeeding is a solo project. A special bonding time between you and your precious little one. So fresh and new, you will spend countless hours staring into each other's eyes while your body produces the perfect blend of ingredients to fit your baby's needs. Your baby will drink this and become full of pure whole-hearted goodness. You are both a wonder of God at that exact moment and you can almost see the love in your baby's eyes. As for your love, wow... in those quiet minutes between Mother and child it's almost as if an outsider could literally see it pouring from you. Suddenly, out of nowhere: BAM! A sticky, fuzz laden hand comes from below you and punches the baby in the head. Next, it grabs your pinky in an excruciatingly painful black ninja hold and pulls you in an attempt to get you to follow it to the kitchen, no the living room... no, wait, the dining room... maybe the playroom... oh hell, just follow it - it'll figure out where it wants you to go eventually. Yep, it's your toddler. Oh, and contrary to what experts think, she believes breastfeeding sucks. Let's take a moment and strap her crazy ass down in the toddler seat on the bike for safe-keeping. We'll get back to her soon I promise. Wouldn't want to leave her unattended now would we? Next, your 4 year old decides the best idea he's had all day is to ask you to turn on a movie while single-handedly making him a snack and simultaneously looking at every commercial on the Disney channel that advertises the most expensive toys on the market. "Look Mom! I want THAT!... and THAT! Mom!! You are NOT looking! OH MY GOD MOM! You just missed it! GOD! I told you to look!!". Yeah, 4 year olds require TONS of exclamation marks and capitalizing. They are demanding and dramatic like that. All the while, the baby is still attached to my boob. Yeah, she's still there. The tiniest, most helpless member of our family is holding on like a champ. I love her for this. Fighting for her place amongst her siblings. I look down at her and smile "You sure are tough, little peanut". Okay, so lets toss... er, uh, place the 4 year old in the trailer attached to the rear wheel now. Afterall, we are getting ready to take off and we can't leave him behind! Breastfeeding is a group effort. Damn it. And did I mention that I'm doing this all one-handed? Yep, I could make dinner for a table of 10, shave my legs and mow the lawn all while that little bundle is still attached. I'm just that good.
So let's use our imaginations here for a sec: 4 year old in the trailer with his rolling Spider Man back pack full of 3,000 intricate choking hazard toys, a blankie, 5 stuffed animals, a packet of fruit snacks, a ham sandwich with the crusts cut off and a cup of extra chocolately chocolate milk. Toddler in the seat with her blankie, a binky, a bobby (a.k.a. bottle for those of you not in "the know"), a random piece of tape, an old used sticker, a battery and a blue marker. Me, riding on the bike seat while nursing the newborn in one hand who still has a stinky diaper on from this morning, my blouse tails flapping in the wind (who are we kidding here... a blouse? Yeah right) - my husbands rather large and now crusty black t-shirt flapping in the wind up over my head because really, do we milk machines EVER have time to cover our boobs for extended periods of time? Formula and a bottle full of warm water wrapped in foil latched on to the handle bars for good measure because we just never know when our milk will be stubborn, decide to play games and piss our babies off. A boppy pillow hanging by a thread from the front brake pad being torn to shreds on the pavement because it's something that "they" say all breastfeeders should have but in the end we dish out $45 on something that is just a conversation piece. Oh, and if you haven't figured it out yet, we've taken off at this point and have managed to get about a block before the toddler and 4 year old are both protesting that they are bored and want to go home. Well, the toddler can't really tell me this. A series of slaps to my face and one good temper tantrum sorta spelled it out for me. Baby is still hanging on but I fear the constant tugging is doing nothing but bad things for my poor milk bags. They outta be good and pretty by the time she's 6 months. I really do hate stretch marks. Okay, we have the formula, the bottle, the boppy... and yes! The endless chain of burp cloths which I've tied around my head like a bandana because I've run out of room on the bike (maybe I should purchase a handle bar basket?). At this point, and let's just face the facts here, I look like Rambo-the-half-naked-and-crazy-homeless-woman transporting her entire life and litter of children down the streets of D.C. on a slowly deflating bike at 1.3 mph. Oh and let us not forget the endless stream of men on the sidewalk who are shielding their eyes from my bare chest. Sure, at one point they ruled your life but NOW you are disgusted by them. Men. Go figure. The good news is that I think the baby actually drank something. How much? Who the hell knows at this point but I'm going to go ahead and guess that 5 minutes of nursing is better than no nursing at all. I detach her from the boob, poor little bird mouth moving from side to side because she's certainly not even close to full yet... and it's already been 45 minutes since she last ate! Oh the horror! I release the hounds, I mean kids, back to the house, stomp on the boppy pillow out of pure repulsion, use the burp cloth to wipe my sweaty brow and toss that piece of shit bike in the trash can on my way to the front door. Screw it, I'll vow to extra power breastfeed her for 10 whole glorious minutes next time! It'll be great, you'll see. For now, the bottle will be my new breast... I mean best, friend. Thank you Enfamil Lipil. Reflect on them apples, La Leche League.