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February 3, 2001
Since my last diary entry, life at the Grubbs’ residence has certainly calmed down a bit. Kenny’s heart problem seems to be on the mend, and he is finally accustomed to the new medicines. Sam is healthy, aside from a little case of purple boogers (Sam-speak for a stuffy nose).
I must say, nursing this child has certainly become a relationship I could never have imagined. You have to take my word for this - if you only nursed your child as an infant, you have NO CLUE what nursing a toddler is like!
First of all, it’s hardly ever discrete. Forget the days of nursing while sitting anonymously on the bench at the mall without so much as a sideways glance from a passerby. Also, forget the adoring glances you might have received when nursing a tiny little newborn. Even other mothers (and maybe ESPECIALLY other mothers), if they manage eye contact at all, only do so for the purpose of communicating their dismay at your “behavior.” It’s difficult - if even possible at all - to disguise that your rambunctious toddler is doing as he stands on his head on your lap, twirling in circles, with one leg propped up on the back of the bench and the other leg kicking up the dirt in the tree planter two feet to your left, with the index finger of his right hand exploring your left nostril and his left hand groping for your other breast. All the while maintaining a perfect latch - and YES, this is possible, because your once, somewhat perky little size B breasts have long since acquired the ability to painlessly stretch to your knees. While you are standing.
Attention from men is pretty much the same as it was then - if they happen to accidentally discover that you are doing something with your breasts in open public (something not meant for THEIR voyeuristic benefit), they still turn 20 shades of red and run the other direction. These are members of the same species who make a concerted effort to see breasts in any other capacity possible. They will drive out of town to visit an adult bookstore to buy pictures of breasts, or use breasts to sell a muscle car or a 6-pack of beer. But God forbid - use a breast for the purpose it was created and watch society whip out their double-standard set of proper-behavior-in-public-rules and apply it to a situation in which a child is receiving God-given sustenance from his mother. I just don’t get it. Prime time television can run a show called Sex in the City - NYPD Blue can feature a different naked rear end every week and all of that is okay, but it’s obscene to sit down beside an old man on a bench in the mall and breastfeed (even if this same offended man is drooling over a scantily clad, nose-pierced 15-year-old walking past the shared bench...) I just don’t get it.
Bottom line, it just doesn’t matter that the rest of the world mistakenly thinks the nursing relationship of a mother and a child is their business.
I still love nursing Sam, and it’s apparent he loves it too. There is no denying he is aware of our closeness when he is nursing and he reaches up to hold my face. It’s an unspeakable wonder, the way my heart swells when he lovingly pats my face, gazes into my eyes and smiles the sweetest smile the universe has ever known.
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