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To boob or not to boob? Breastfeeding and working… the impossible task.
It’s one of those age old decisions every new mum has to make, to boob or not to boob. For me it was an easy one, breastfeeding all the way. Not just because of all the extra nutrients or antibodies or yada yada yada but because it was FREE. One word I absolutely adore.
So here I was, new born baby in hand, thinking YES I have totally got this
I am going to fill this child with the most nutritious milkshake the human body has to offer. He will never get ill.
He will grow into a perfectly rounded individual and he will have more muscles than Hasselhoff all because of the wonders my glorious body will produce.
People will look at me in awe and think… wow I wish I was that mum. She runs her own business, she has a baby and she has her shit together, I want to be her.
Then Ryan pulls up onto the driveway from the hospital. He gets the car seat out of the car and my boobs leak through my vest. (Why did no one tell me to buy breast pads?) “Take the baby” I say and go to clear myself up in the bathroom. Only to discover the red river of babylon has unleashed pure hell and I am leaking from my arse to my elbow. (Why did no one tell me how much you bled after birth?!)
It’s ok, I’m still new at this, no one is judging me yet.
Well my mum was after the 12th call of the evening screaming.
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Fast forward 10 weeks later, I’ve cried more than Lindsay Lohan after her 8th stint in rehab. I’ve got cabbage leaves down my bra because my nipples are raw…And I mean bleeding raw.
I read cabbage leaves are supposed to help. FYI they don’t and I wee myself, ALL. THE. TIME. (Why did no one mention pelvic floor exercises?)
OK so confession time, I used the breast pump, there I said it, I needed a break.
The sight of Ryan’s fully rested face after a full 10 hours sleep was enough for me to want to punch him square in the face. So I thought he could do a few night feeds. Plus it’s time for me to go back to work.
Back to work
So off I trot, to my little safe haven of the grooming van. At this point I’m desperate to grapple back some of my identity. The baby is firmly dropped off with my parents, with a plan to come back after every groom to feed. I pull up at my first client’s house.
She offers me a cuppa and I gladly accept, I genuinely can’t remember the last time I drank a hot one of these.
I then talk solidly for 20 minutes about Theodore’s bowel movements and crack on with the job…who says I need an identity anyway.
So after wrestling the mornings Akita de shed, I head home to feed Theodore. Feeling like Mrs Smuggin’s I could get used to juggling this work life balance malarky.
I grab my baby, he smells so good. I do not butI pull down my bra and my boob is covered in Kaisers dead coat and
Nail clippings are down my bra. Is it morally wrong to carry on? Who cares, I don’t have time. I’ve got my next dog in 15 minutes. I give it a quick dust off and latch him on.
It’s only when I pull him off and he looks like Homer Simpson I get an attack of the guilts. I stride out to my van ready for the next dog and see a lady jogging with a 3 wheel pushchair. I start the van and stare at her perfectly round arse cheeks bopping as she runs and I think, God I wish I was her..
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