I’m an embarrassment to my former self. I used to be clever. Just reading those arrogant words is making the self-deprecating Lutheran in Susie Sunshine cringe. But I was smart. I could figure things out before I gave birth to three children. OK, so I lost my brilliance the second I became pregnant with The Boy.
I walked into the “nursing area” of the women’s bathroom at church today. What that means is the lighting is low and the couches are comfy. I looked down. My cute maxi-dress that I put on this morning? What kind of moron who is nursing wears a ONE PIECE FLOOR LENGTH DRESS?
Luckily I have no modesty. It was the nursing area. I apologized to the woman nursing her baby on the couch about how I was going to have to practically pull my dress up to my neck to feed my child.
Her: Oh my gosh, there are so few good nursing clothes options. I might have something in my bag to help you cover up if you want something.
K: That would be great. A bag? I haven’t carried a bag since #1. I just make my husband carry a clean diaper in his pocket and then I hope for the best.
Her: You know, I might have a Hooter Hider in here somewhere (digging in her bag).
I’m sorry. Did she just use the word “hooter” in church? I mean, I know what a Hooter Hider is but it seems like you might be calling it something else within the hallowed halls of church. And this woman? She did not look like the kind of woman who is going to “Hooters” for the wings. She didn’t look like she had a four-year-old who knows how to operate a bottle opener and offered a beer to his mother in front of his teetotaling grandmother. The word “gosh” flowed off her tongue with ease.
She said “hooter.” In church.
I looked down at the nursing cover she handed to me. A nursing cover which was not actually a Hooter Hider brand and was actually called “The Cover for the Nursing Mother who is Modest” or some other long-assed name that made me think, “Bad branding. Bad. Bad.” It was gorgeous. It had this fabulous color scheme with huge flowers. I would have loved to have had a comforter for my bed in that pattern.
Which brings me to something about nursing covers. As beautiful as they are, I think they kinda scream “I’M TOTALLY STICKING MY BOOB IN MY BABY’S MOUTH RIGHT NOW.” Or, my personal favorite, “UNDER THIS COVER I AM TOTALLY NAKED.” Another thing. Hooter Hider. I’m thinking that if you are willing to refer to “The Great Nurishers of Your Child” as “Hooters” you probably don’t even need a nursing cover. Or want one. I am by far the most modest nurser in my family (Hello, Jen Lemen) but you lift up your shirt a little, no one knows. No harm, no foul. Unless you are on a United Airlines puddle jumper flight and you get into it with the flight attendant at which point you just think “Whatever” in lieu of making a stink and getting a lifetime of free flights or 7 million hits to your blog if you ever wrote about the injustices of “The Airline Blanket Smackdown of 2005.”
I walked out of the nursing area 10 minutes later. Thanks to the Hooter Hider covering my thighs, I saved the slacker woman looking for a comfy chair and not in possession of a baby a view of my postpartem clot-filled thighs.
Although she probably would have left the nursing area for nursers as it should be if I had given her a glimpse of either my hooters or my thighs. I’m just saying.