I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville wife and mother with a passion for family travel, (mostly) healthy cooking, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries with you, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark.
April 12, 2006
>Baby has been in a play group since she was about four months old. And in its first incarnation (before I took over, thus forcing the bitches to drop out), longtime readers (all three of you) will remember that some of the moms really didn’t like me very much. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why, but a year’s worth of newfound maturity, wisdom and stretch marks has enlightened me.
I am a breastmilk-filled-boobaphobe.
I would be sitting, idly chatting with a mom about, say, an unbelievable child furniture sale at Target, when her baby would wander over and get in her lap.
“…and then I found, for just $40 each!” I’d be saying, “two of the most fabulous…”
I would stop abruptly as the mom casually whipped out a boob for the baby to suck on. I’d look down quickly at the floor. No! That feels weird! I’d move my gaze to a lamp on the other side of the room. No! Who looks the other way when she’s talking to someone?!
“Two of what?” the mom would ask in a fake-innocent voice.
“Two of,” I’d look at the mom again, then my gaze would slip to her boob. “Two of the…” Oh God. I can see her boob! Stop looking at her boob! You freaking pervert! I’d settle for staring dumbly at a picture on the wall to to the right of the mom’s head.
“Two of. I forgot.” I’d finish lamely, before turning away red faced, and playing solely with my baby for the remainder of the meeting.
Variations of this scenario happened every week. These moms were Big Time Breast Feeders, and proud of it. There were more boobs on display at our weekly get togethers than there are at a Bush cabinet meeting (Shut up. I voted for him in a wild moment of panic. I’m entitled to say it).
I could not and cannot hold a conversation with a breastfeeding woman. And I was ostracized for it. Cast out of the inner circle. Because I insisted on keeping my breastfeeding to myself.
Yes, I, too, was a breastfeeder. And I support the right of a breastfeeding woman to do it wherever and whenever she needs to. I’m appalled that women have been asked to leave restaurants and public places because they were feeding their babies.
The problem I have with breastfeeding is strictly a personal one. I can’t stand being flashed by a woman while I’m trying to have a normal conversation with her about cauliflower puree. At least give me a warning. A simple, “Breast! Incoming!” will suffice. Because there’s nothing more embarrassing than unexpectedly being faced with an oversized nipple when all you’re trying to do is find out where the dame found those pink and purple Robeez.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the moms all had reached the 12-month mark and weaned their babies. But the damage had been done. I was marked with a “U” for “unbreastfeedingfriendly”, and realized when I opened the door one day and a bucket of paint dropped on my head that I was no longer welcome at The Breast Play Group Ever.
Live and learn, I guess.