Boobs on Aisle Seven

Filed Under: Life

I experienced my first dose of breastfeeding freak-out yesterday.

We packed the kids up and headed to Target to procur a “bouncy seat” and a Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte no whip no sprinkles [thank you very much].

I made sure to feed Oliver right before we left and since we only had a couple of things to grab, I wasn’t too concerned about needing to feed him while we were out.

Things were going great until an expedition for new Cara shoes ran a bit long.

My mild mannered newborn quickly started squalling like a smashed cat and I knew that I really needed to feed him.  Pronto!

About that time, Cara decided that she wanted out of the cart RIGHT THEN and joined in on the hollaring and carrying on.

Fun times.

There was no place for me to sit to feed Oliver and I panicked.

I booked it to the furniture section in hopes of finding a couch or chair that was somewhat hidden.  No such luck.

By this time, Tucker and Cara had found me [cause I left them in the dust in my panic] and Oliver was doing this crazy pig squeal thing that he only does when he’s REALLY mad.

I paced back and forth in the isle hoping that the little old ladies who frequent this Target wouldn’t decide to investigate the sound of an obviously pissed infant.  I hiked up my t-shirt, pulled down the flap of my Glamourmom top and whipped out my boob.

Oliver wasn’t having it.

He slung his head from right to left and spasmodically forced his fists into his mouth.  He’s not a champ at breastfeeding anyway and when he gets upset things really go down the shitter.

Cara was squealing because she loves imitating Oliver and people kept walking by and I couldn’t get Oliver to latch on and Cara was calling my name…

I freaked out.  I lost my shit.  I almost started balling.  And then Oliver shut up and latched on and I could breath again.

Tucker, always the calm one, suggested that we go to the changing room.

I made sure that everything was well covered and bundled Ollie up in his blanket and we made the very short trip to the changing room.  Two 20 something chicks gave me really nasty looks and one said to the other, “Did you see her shirt?  You know what she’s doing, right?” and the other just shook her head.

I was mortified.

If we were still in Jacksonville, I wouldn’t have given two shits.

Screw you because I’m not showing off my tits and my kid’s hungry.  I wouldn’t have been rude about it…I just wouldn’t have been worried about what someone might have said or thought.

That’s not the case here.

For some reason, small town Arkansas has made me ashamed of the fact that I breastfeed.

I never, in a million years, thought that I would be shamed into hiding in a dressing room.  I never thought that I would let a couple of stupid bitches cut me to the bone like that.

I 100% agreed with Catherine when she said that, “when women are made to feel ashamed for breastfeeding, they’re being shamed at the most vulnerable times in their lives.

Isn’t that the fucking truth?  You have this tiny little ball of pissed off baby who is doing everything in its power to undermine your best breastfeeding efforts and you have to worry about what other people are going to say or do.

So, I let my self be shamed.

And because of that, I’m rather ashamed of myself.

I’m not sure how I intend to grow a backbone but I gotta find that proud breastfeeding chick who used to live in Jacksonville, FL and breastfed her daughter in the middle of Cheesecake Factory and the Naval Hospital and while driving down the interstate [hi, truckers!].

I know that chick’s around here somewhere…