I don't care if you breast feed or not. I'm not one of those people. I'm breastfeeding. It hasn't been picture perfect. Apparently I have lazy nipples. Like my ass, I guess.
Everyone says "the first few days are a little rough." That's like saying 40 grit sandpaper is "a little rough." Ideally, by the way, 40 grit sandpaper is totally what you should line your bra with a few months before you deliver, so your nipples can toughen up a bit. Because that little adorable beastie? Is going to shred them.
All the experts and earth mamas paint this picture of total maternal bliss when you breastfeed. They make it sound like you're going to have sparrows chirping around your head while a smiling, rosy-cheeked infant gently suckles your perfect breast.
NOBODY gives you the reality. The morning after your milk comes in, you're topless on the couch, covered in your own snot, sobbing, with rivers of leaking breast milk running down the fronts of your legs, your breasts the size of Macy's floats, all the while trying to console a starving infant who believes that someone pulled a Folger's Crystals switch with his mother's titties. Your husband will be bewildered, you'll leave a crazed message on the lactation consultant's machine, and eventually you'll try to pump some before your boobs explode, and give the kid a bottle. (all the while praying that you don't ruin him for the boob ever again)
Eventually, you do get the hang of it. Your kid gains weight, and you no longer silently scream when he latches on. And it does get better. Maybe not sparrows and bliss, but it gets better.
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