Childbirth, as you know, is not too different from a gladiator battle: filled with a lot of screaming, blood and sharp metal objects. Because a few of our married friends have started to have babies, I’ve learned a lot of things. Horrible ghastly things I wish I’d never learned. Such as how women often empty their bowels during delivery. And episiotomy … easily my least favorite word in the English language.
Several days before Daisy had her baby, she told me that many hospitals had breastfeeding consultants.
“Why?” I asked incredulously, “To point to the nipple and say ‘Baby’s mouth goes here?’”
After informing me that I was an idiot, she explained that there’s a myriad of things that can go wrong with breastfeeding and lactating. She started to describe the bleeding and the clogging and the swelling, and then I began to visualize traumatized mammaries.
Boobs to me are beautiful things, and I had a hard time accepting the fact that they undergo such violent abuse. Luckily there was a cold bottle of Guinness within arm’s reach, and I pretended to be fully occupied with the important task of finishing that.
All this is just another example of how overly complicated human beings have become. What happened to the days when a cavewoman would just whip out her udder and give junior his breakfast without having Ookla the lactation consultant instruct her that her cave teat was at an improper angle?