Dear Friend, Family Member, Elderly Neighbour, Members Of The Public and Numerous Asda Delivery Drivers,
I know you weren’t quite expecting to see my breast today. To be fair, I wasn’t expecting you to either. I didn’t wake up this morning with that on my to do list. It was just one of those things that happened, you know like when 5,6,7,8 got to number one or when Columbus stumbled upon America. It’s not something that would normally transpire between us but it did. You, a screaming baby and my left tit – was all the Universe needed to make this awkward event take place.
I know you saw it. You know you saw it. I know, you know that I know you saw it.
Even God knows you saw it.
It’s ok. We are going to be ok because we’re adults. We’re all grown up and a boob is just a boob. Half of the people in World have them, we’ve known about them for our entire lives. We see them all the time in real life, in movies, at bus stops (adverts I mean).
Tits, breasts, boobs, boobies, titties, baps, boobage, bust, funbags, breasticles, hooters, rack, jugs, twins, sideboob, cans, pillows, norks, melons
The trouble is I have two choices. I can sit here with a screaming baby, burping her on my knee telling her to sshhh. We can remark to ourselves that perhaps she has wind or is tired and needs a nap. We can suffer her quite frankly horrendous, ear-drum bashing wailing whilst we sip our coffees and try to have a conversation.
Or I can instantly solve the problem by whipping out a funbag and giving her what she wants. Because what she wants is feeding. She’s hungry. Thus the reason I have a hooter out. Your presence is not a factor .
Cover Up Love
The other thing I could do is cover up. I could get one of those bizarre breast feeding cape things. They go over the shoulder, over the aforementioned melons and over the baby who is causing all this trouble. They call it a nursing cover, you know to cover up the fact you are nursing. So that the rest of the World doesn’t have to feel shitty, because you selfishly chose to feed your baby this way. In fact that should be the product description for these:
“NO MORE SHAME! STOP MAKING OTHER PEOPLE FEEL WEIRD! A comfortable and stylish nursing cover, to hide the fact that you are breast feeding your baby – you despicable excuse for a Mother.”
I could cover up, I could – to make you feel better. But I ain’t gonna.
Well because first of all breast feeding is enough of a faff without having to negotiate a fucking tarpaulin around my neck. I’ve already got a bra, layers of clothing and a baby to wrestle. Secondly, would you like to eat your lunch with a blanket over your head? No you wouldn’t, can you imagine? So I don’t see why my baby should either. And thirdly, because you know what? You can always leave, if it’s all so awful for you.