I was never very good at pregnancy. Sure, I guess it all turned out all right. The pregnancies always achieved the desired results -- a baby. But, I never really felt at home housing a child. My own mother claims that she always loved being pregnant -- that she never felt better. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah old woman -- time and quite possibly the hell I put you through in my adolescence has crippled your mind. Pregnancy sucks. Especially the second and third time around when you have other children who depend on you to actively participate in life rather than mold your body into the couch and take up permanent residence there for 9 months. They expect you to feed them, bathe them and all of that other mummy BS.
I have, however, been good at breastfeeding. I can't say that it's always come easy, but I felt proud that I breastfed my two girls for over a year. I firmly believed that breast milk was the only suitable nutrition for my children and I likened formula to pet food --I could not fathom feeding my baby out of a can. I thought women who complained of supply problems, latching issues or any other sort of breastfeeding hurdle were simply not committed to the cause. Of course, publicly, I would never say these things. In the many titillating (pun intended) conversations I've had with friends regarding feeding their young, I've always recited a politically correct mantra that went something like, "You just have to do what works for you. Every mother and baby is different." Really I wanted to call them out as lazy or a selfish-quitter.
Then I had Jack.