Our class last Wednesday night was all about breastfeeding.
Boobs. Boobies. Bodacious Ta-Tas. Dirty Pillows. Fun Bags. Breastasizzes.
Matt asked what we were learning and I said, "It's Boobie class."
"Yep, all about Boobies."
"I like Boobies."
So we learn all about the great things of breastfeeding your baby. Huh, so that's what boobs are for, I thought. I grew up thinking they were for something totally different, namely to make boys act stupid.
Actually, they still do that.
Then we get to practice on our baby dolls. My baby doll didn't like me very much. I was not comfortable holding it in the cradle or cross-cradle hold, and I ended up not sure where to put my hands and arms. If it had been a real baby I'm sure it would have tried to bite me for being so incompetent. I managed to do the football hold (Yay sports!) because that was the only one that felt natural to me, pretending the baby was a football. Hello, my name is Mindy and I'm a man!
Matt practiced too; it was only mildly annoying that he was better at it than me.
So there we all were, breastfeeding fake dolls when a lady wanders in the room. "Is this the place?" she asks, a little confused.
Well, it's definitely a place. A surreal place. She looks at us as we are pretend massaging our boobs (Matt tries to help me do it because he likes to be hands-on) and looks a bit startled.
"This isn't AA?" she asks.
"No," says the instructor. "That's down the hall."
She looks relieved and leaves. She will probably want a drink later, I think, after seeing our show.
Then we go through the different types of breast pumps. She turns them on, the big electric ones make a groaning sound, and I'm instantly transported back to Uncle Ronnie and Aunt LaVonne's dairy farm. I used to get up at the crack of dawn to go in the barn and watch my great uncle milk his cows. I used to think I was helping but I'd mainly sit on hale bales and pet all the barn kitties. One year I even saw a calf get born.
Well, that machine made the exact same noise as those milking devices that were hooked up to the cow's teats. The same heave and whoosh; it was downright bizarre. I realized when it came down to it, I would end up doing the exact same thing as all those Holsteins I had helped feed those early mornings on the farm.
While I'm contemplating this I look over and see that my husband is attempting to suction his boob through his T-shirt using a manual breast pump. He has created enough suction to pucker the fabric through the nipple cup, and he is giggling like an idiot.