Her Breasts Will Explode

I haven’t written anything in a while. There’s a reason for it, though. I suppose there always are reasons. When do reasons turn into excuses, I wonder? Well, my reason is as grand as a piano. A life! We made a human, and more importantly, he decided to stick around.

Time is flying past. I didn’t think it would. Of course, people everywhere told me it would speed by. I didn’t believe them, though.

“Hey, lady, time is a-ticketing.”

“You there! You won’t remember this—it’ll all go so quickly!”

I do remember, however. I remember like it was five months ago.

In the beginning, every day dragged. Why does it feel like this? I would wonder. Why am I filled with worry? Why am I so task-focused? Just try to get him to sleep. Just get him to latch on. Is he feeding? Why is he feeding all the time? What’s that rash? Is he warm enough? That thermometer has a three-degree discrepancy—so is it too hot or too cold? He hasn’t pooped. What am I doing wrong? He hates me.

Every day was survival. Survival from your own worst enemy: your mind.

Was it like this when life was first created? You know, in the Sapien days? Were Homo sapiens filled with self-doubt and worry? Had the human brain already developed enough for self-doubt? Did we have egos then? Or did we just get on with it? I like to think there were at least one or two neurotic Homo sapiens scratching their heads, wondering whether they should even bother trying to source food.

Actually, the “newborn stage” reminds me of my rave days. The buzz of the high, long gone. It’s 3 a.m. Daylight pierces through the gaps in the curtains, but still, you dance. You dance until only your body responds to the rhythm of the music playing. You don’t think. Just dance.

The track builds up. The DJ is bouncing to the beats, waving their arms and pumping the air, telling the audience it’s coming. You dance harder. You know the beat is going to drop any second now. You time it so your moves are in sync. You jump, and you’re in the air for an eternity. And when you start falling, your feet connect with the floor, and the bass drops. Boom. Perfect.

Your body aches all over because you’ve been dancing for four solid hours without a break. You want to go home, but you don’t dare leave. So, you keep dancing.

I danced through the newborn stage. I willed myself to keep going. My body ached. There was no other option. This little human had total dependence on me.

My depen-dance.

I would look at him—this living, innocent, beautiful boy. My son. Each day, I couldn’t sit down without wincing. I bled. I peed. I farted. I lost control of my body. It looked and felt so different. My boobs ballooned out and became heavy. My eyes hurt every time I closed my eyelids. I couldn’t imagine it ever getting any better.

I nursed him until my nipples were cracked and raw. I wrapped him in an origami swaddle, tighter and tighter, only for it to unravel and prevent him from sleeping. I cradled him for hours, finally getting him down for a thirty-minute nap. I think about every single moment faster and faster, remembering the anguish, the worry, the drive, and the determination. It burns me out just thinking about it. Maybe that’s why my eyes are sore.

But that was then. I do remember it so vividly, but now things are different. So different that it makes me think those days were such a long time ago. Time goes fast when you’re having fun, as they say. Does this mean I’m enjoying how my time is filled more? It must.

Don’t get me wrong—this is still gruelling. My eyeballs still hurt. My back still hurts. My ankles. My nipples!

My nipples have now morphed into some sort of self-shielded, weaponised, milk-producing bullets. My milk-tipped nipplets.

Enough about my nipples.

I remember when we had our second midwife home visit. The first midwife was so young. She was kind and schooled the both of us.

“Oh, my son at home was the same. Perhaps you should try another blanket.” The solution came so easily to her, while we struggled.

The second midwife, however, was nothing short of bonkers. Kind of comforting, in a way—crazy folks gainfully employed.

She would end every sentence with, “…you know what I mean.”

“Oh, you should be bathing your child, getting into a good routine, you know what I mean.”

“Babies are learning too, so he’s adjusting to you as well, you know what I mean.”

“I have a question about pumping and breastfeeding?” I asked anyway, though I was increasingly wary of the expert credentials this woman claimed to have.

“Go on.”

I waited for the you know what I mean. But it didn’t come. Oddly it disappointed me.

“Well, if I pump at, say, two o’clock and he wakes for a feed at 2:30, will I have any milk?”

“Yes, your body always has milk. But essentially, you pump early on to help build up your supply. What it’s doing is telling your body to produce milk. So, you may not get much, and that’s okay. It’s more to build up your supply, you know what I mean?”

“But if I pump after a feed, I don’t usually get much milk from it.”

“Yes, that’s okay. Just try and space out the pumps from the feeds. You don’t want to create an oversupply and then find yourself with too much milk. You know what I mean?”

“Oh, can that happen?” I asked worryingly.

“Well, yes. As I said, your body thinks it needs to produce milk, and so it will. What do you think will happen if you stop feeding or using the milk?”

She asked the question in such a way that we should’ve known the answer. Like it was obvious.

Jon and I looked at each other. Neither of us had any clue what she was on about.

She persisted.

“Well what’s going to happen if you skip pumping or a feeding once you’ve established it?”

I really started missing the “do you know what I means” now.

“Umm…”

“What do you think will happen to your breasts if you do that?”

I guess something must happen. She seemed to be giving us clues as to how we should respond.

Jon stepped in. He could see I had no idea.

“Her breasts will explode?” he offered.

I smiled. The lines around his eyes flexed, and we both were laughing on the inside. I love this man.

She scoffed at his comment, as if to say, Typical—men don’t know anything.

“Well, no. Breasts can’t explode. But they will become engorged, and you can run the risk of infection.”

“You know what I mean?”

Instantly I felt at ease upon hearing her catch phrase.

It was clear that Jon and I both did and didn’t know. What we did know, however, was that this woman was insane. Still, I couldn’t honestly say we were certain my breasts were safe from exploding that night.