So we have a before picture, circa June 2007. And an after picture, circa December 2007. Same dress, basically same idiotic drunk face (don’t laugh, you know you are have trademark drunk face, too). The difference? My breasts. Half the size, about 6 inches farther up my chest cavity (you know, where they should be), & about 4 lbs lighter.

That’s right, kids…BA had a breast reduction in late August 2007. I could go into the four years of agonizing fighting with the insurance companies to get it covered, or I could show you pictures of the raw indents in my shoulders from my bra straps. I could talk about how disgusting it feels when you’re 15 & men leer at you in restaurants, or how my wedding dress had to be purchased 2 sizes too big to accommodate my breasts, then taken in a foot on each side for my waist.

But I won’t.

Instead, we’re going to chat about breastfeeding. & this will probably be a long chat because a) it’s something I tend to be very sensitive about & b) it’s not a one-martini topic. It’s like…a 10 martinis topic, past happy hour, into last call. We all have our opinions on it. Let’s go ahead & nod & realize that all of us, including me, have an opinion on the subject. & despite the incredibly personal nature of this subject, we all believe our opinion is correct & then anyone who differs deserves a call to child services. We all on the same page? Good. That being said…

I am not going to breastfeed. At all.

I am not going to stick HJ on my boob at any point in his life. Nope, not even going to try. Not even for colostrum. Yes, I know about the benefits of breast milk & ye olde saying “Breast is Best.” Yes, I know about bfar.org, which is an excellent resource.

Stepping back a bit as a wee bit of education, a breast reduction is, der, the reduction in the size of the breasts. If you want gory details, Google Images is your friend. During the reduction, my plastic surgeon removed half of my breast tissue, which included moving my nipple several inches higher to a more appropriate location (aka not at my knees). The nipple size is typically reduced to be more proportionate to the new breast. When they move the nipple, they typically do not severe it completely, which can allow for breastfeeding post-surgery.

So, you are probably asking, “If they didn’t severe the nipple, why won’t you breastfeed?” (some of you may be ending that quote with “you selfish twat” & that’s okay):

• A year & a half post-op, I still cannot feel my breasts. At all. One of Doug’s favorite games is to pinch the underside of my breast, then laugh because I don’t even look…because I can’t feel it. This is a very typical side-effect of a reduction & one I was well-aware of prior to surgery.
• Not only are they pretty much dead lumps on my chest, but they are not responding to the pregnancy. They’re not bigger. Or fuller. The nipples are not darkening. I will be shocked if they get themselves in gear to actually lactate considering they pretty much suffer PTSD of the Breast.
• I would need to pump to see how much milk I get — there’s no way I could just assume I was making enough. This would mean an expensive pump that I may or may not be able to use at all. Not to mention, I may be going back to work at 6 weeks pp, meaning that expensive pump would only be good for 6 weeks because…
• I do not have a job that is conducive to breastfeeding/pumping. There are times that I am with clients for several hours straight, & I cannot interrupt appointments to go pump.
• My plastic surgeon warned that the longer I breastfeed, the more likely I will need work done to my breasts again (that after prolonged engorgement, they may not go back down). He suggested 2 weeks of breast feeding, max. Considering that I fought for years for these bad boys, it’s not something I am willing to risk going through again.
• I know me. When people are being kind, they describe my psychosis as OCD. I cannot, in good mind, put myself through the pressure & stress of breastfeeding when there is a good chance I will fail. Not when I am already mounting the pressure of a newborn’s pure existence on my plate.

What amazes me daily are the opinions that floor once I mention that I will not be breastfeeding. Once, I made the mistake of attending an acquaintance’s baby shower in an effort to meet new people (okay, that was mistake #1), & when asked if I was taking notes on the boob gear, I claimed that I would not be breastfeeding. In the middle of a room full of La Leche…err, Consultants. EPIC FAIL. The woman next to me literally drew in a gasp of horror. & proceeded to climb up on a 20-foot horse because she, Mother of Earth & Milk, BREASTFED TWINS FOR A YEAR. WITH NO PROBLEMS. BECAUSE SHE FLOWS MILK, NOT BLOOD. & if she can do that, then SURELY I can coax my hacked-up boobs into cooperating, right?!?

Because, apparently, I am setting my child up for a sad life of malnutrition, illness, & a lacking IQ if I do not stick him on the teat immediately after delivery.

I also noticed that after my comment regarding the decision to inject my child with jet fuel…poison…err, formula, I was immediately nixed out of the conversations. Shunned by the mother’s at the baby shower. Every comment I made was greeted with a blank stare, punishment for my selfish desire to maintain my current state of breast-age.

Despite the general public’s (including my own mother’s) disdain with my decision, Doug & I are both very satisfied with this choice. Doug is excited that he will have an equal part in HJ’s feeding, without relying on me to pump. I am happy with the ease of it & the lack of stress regarding my supply. Happy Momma = Happy Baby. If there is one parenting guideline I wish to stick to, this would be the masthead.

& before we leave, a memo to the lactation consultant at the hospital — I have heard rumors of your guilt-tripping, & I promise you that should you dare imply that I am a horrible mother for the Similac-filled bottle HJ sucks on, I have an alliance of 20 ninjas that will leap at your throat from under my bed & viciously attack you with nunchucks.

p.s. yes, i am leaving this open to comments. i am sure there are those that will applaud my decision, but i am just as positive that someone out there awaits with tingling fingers the ability to call me a selfish twat under the name of “anonymous.” cheers!