I am not my nipples

Well, actually, right now I kinda am. My life revolves around them: How accessible they are, if there is anything coming out of them, if there is presently a baby attached to one of them. I eat oats not just for breakfast, but several times a day. I drink gallons of lactation tea, take fenugreek and prenatal vitamins. I don’t take any other medications, either because they would interfere with my tenuous lactation or because they could be transmitted through the milk to my child. (I do not consume so much as an Altoid for fear of rocking the milk production boat.) I wear only v necks, tank tops/camis, and shirts that button or zip; crew necks are for another year. My bras all have escape hatches; I spent close to $100 on each of them, because I am a weird size even among the lactating. I rarely leave home without my child, and only go on short outings even when he is with me, making sure I plan for breastfeeding stops and drink refills. I don’t go anywhere I can’t breastfeed.

To my son, the universe is not heliocentric, but areolacentric. And thus my life has become focused on my nipples.

I’m wanting to move this blog over to WordPress, but the current name is taken there. I’m kind of tired of it anyway, so I don’t mind the renaming; I just don’t know what to rename it. I want something that reflects me. Not just my status as a mom, but who I am overall. Problem is, I don’t quite know how to sum that up. Especially now, when I feel like I am hardly more than a walking nipple.


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