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    Because breastfeeding is just all the rage with the kids these days

    March 16, 2007

    Derek asked what I was attempting to do just 15 minutes before Amy and T. were supposed to show up for dinner. 

    K:  I’m trying to nurse the baby now so that T. doesn’t have to look at my bare breasts all night.
    D:  Well, everyone else in America has seen them.  Why can’t he?

    I don’t know.  Because now I can practically tuck them into my pants?  Because T’s from Maine?  Because the state from which they are hailing is just slightly less uptight than the mother of a 15 year old girl on prom night?  And he’s not the blogger friend.  He’s the blogger friend’s husband.  He’s an attorney, for God’s sake.  We all know how uptight attorneys can be.  And frankly, there were one too many “cleaning-out-the-deep-freezer-so-there-will-be-room-for-your-bodies” IM’s.  He’s probably traumatized by the thought of entering a stranger’s house.  A stranger who has repeatedly plastered her husband and children’s identities online but who somehow remains comfortably anonymous.  While the average blogger has no problem with inviting a veritable stranger into one’s home and calling that person “my friend Amy,” maybe a non-blogger is not so trusting. 

    Oh, I refer to her as “my friend Amy” because I had great faith that once I met her, she would be “my friend Amy.”  Maybe it was the fact that she showed up with flowers and a bottle of Bacardi.  Maybe it was the 2nd Mojito talking.  Maybe it was the commonality we had regarding, shall we just judiciously call it “family drama?”  Maybe it was the 2nd Mojito talking.  But she is most definitely now “my friend Amy.”  Even though she Laughed Out Loud when I explained that “of course I made a cheesecake for dessert.  That’s what stay-at-home-mother’s do.” 

    What I don’t understand is why my husband laughed.  I mean, that’s what SAHM’s do.  I’ve heard that somewhere, I swear.

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    If this is my only problem, then I’ve got no problems.

    February 19, 2007

    He treats breastfeeding as one treats a bottle of Montrachet 1978 that has been purchased in lieu of a home.  He approaches it with trepidation that maybe, just maybe, if he turns his head away for one moment, it will be gone.  He takes slow sips, savoring the full-bodied flavor.  He knows in his heart of hearts that he can make that one drink last for hours. 

    It’s the only time in a mother’s life that she wishes her child breastfed with the enthusiasm that gives her faint glimpses of a future Daytona Beach Beer Funnel Grand Champion, Spring Break, 2028. 

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