There are some things that just aren’t explained as fully as they should be, particularly on the subject of children. Well, I mean, life itself would be a lot easier if it came with a manual, but I’d settle for one about mothering.
Now, I try not to talk about anything that could be classified as too much information on this blog. I don’t want to embarrass myself or my family any more than I already have. However, even though this has to do with my boobs and who knows the Google searches that may pop up as a result, it’s also Abby’s main source of nourishment. Take it as you will.
To make a long story short, and because the longer version that I just tried to type out was in no way coherent, I’ll simply summarize: whilst breastfeeding, do not go to bed with a breast you know is fuller than it should be or else you may very well wake up with a clogged milk duct. Not to mention a puddle and overall swirled in a blender feeling. Unless, of course, you’re the lucky sort and beam rainbows from your eyes. In which case, I hate you.
Luckily, I’ve never had to deal with full-fledged mastitis or thrush, although I’m not exactly jumping for joy here. I can’t even imagine how anything can be worse, unless somehow a rhinoceros horn was rammed into my nipple. Repeatedly. And even that might be an improvement.
At the very beginning of a breastfeeding relationship while still under hospital care, you have nurses after consultants after passing strangers trying to tell you how it should be done. Switch sides. Switch positions. Don’t do this but be sure to do this. If you get mastitis or thrush go to the doctor. But they never really say why or what will happen. They fail to tell you that if you don’t follow directions, you could wake up one morning fully willing to sell your soul to Satan if he’d just turn your boob back into the saggy, pain-free mound of amicable fatty tissue you know and love.