I held the paper gown away from my body with my pinched fingers, like a pre-teen pulling at her sweater in the mirror, imagining her silhouette with breasts. “Oh for the love of nipple,” I muttered as I climbed onto the paper-covered examination table.
“You ok, Hon?” Rocco asked, shifting his focus from the car seat at his feet.
“Fine. Just…annoyed.” The table crackled beneath me as I shifted my weight, trying to find a way to hold my arms without them grazing my chest.
With a quick knock, the door opened and she stepped into the room. She wore a black sweater dress with a bright red cardigan and tall black boots – festive dress for the office holiday party later that evening. Her smile was as bright as her necklace. Then her eyebrows furrowed as she flipped through my chart. “What are you doing to your boobs?” she exclaimed.
“The question is – what are they doing to me?” She opened the gown, looked at my chest, looked back at me, and sighed. “That’s more mastitis in the other boob, isn’t it?” She nodded. “And the yeast infection is back in my nipples, isn’t it?” She pouted slightly and nodded again. “Summabitch.”
She shook her head. “You ARE having a time of it, aren’t you?” It was my turn to nod. “Let’s get you some more meds…and some help. I’m going to call a lactation consultant.”
“Is she going to tell me I have to walk around the house naked from the waist up? ‘Cause it’s too damn cold for that shit.”
“No, she’s not like that. She’s the nicest person, really mellow, very realistic.” I looked at her doubtfully. “Really, she might be able to tell you how to change a position or something so that all this clears up.”
“I’m just a little hesitant to invite yet another person to judge me and my tits.”
But I went. And you know what? It actually wasn’t creepy. Her office was inside a perfectly lovely maternity store inside a perfectly lovely shopping center – not in the basement of her yurt.* There wasn’t a single soft-focused, full size poster of a baby nestled between 70’s boobs in sight. The room was bright and smelled nothing of patchouli. Rather than a kimono and dreadlocks, she wore jeans and a sweater. She even had a sense of humor. I *gasp* LIKED her.
So I got my baby naked and whipped out my tits.
The good news: we’re doing everything right. The bad news: we’re doing everything right – so there’s really nothing to fix. We’re just going to try and cram in another feeding every day in the hopes he’ll pack on some more pounds. Two guesses as to how my nipples feel about THAT. Then we’ll just cross our fingers that the new meds will knock out the other issues.
Now, because this is a relatively boring post without a punchline, here’s a cartoon of homicidal llamas.
*I know, yurts don’t have basements. Just roll with me here.