I’m a perfectionist. Not only do I want to do things right, I want to do them right the first time I try. So, while Katie was still resting in my womb I prepared for my role as a nursing mother by reading books, talking to other nursing moms, joining the La Leche League, and taking a course on breast feeding. But, despite all of my research I was terrified the day the nurse handed Katie to me, hungry for her first taste of Mama’s milk.

After much fumbling Katie finally latched on. Click. Click. Click. I knew that sound. It was a sign that Katie didn’t have a good grip on me. Pop! I broke the seal and we started again. Click. Click. Click. After what seemed like hours we were still unable to get a handle on this nursing thing. I was sure my newborn was going to starve if we didn’t solve the problem soon. The nurse hovering over my shoulder only intensified my sense of failure and pending doom. Katie’s cries got more desperate as she rooted around my breasts like a pig at the trough.

I’m still not sure how it happened but by some divine intervention Katie finally latched on correctly. Now, according to the experts, I was suppose to let Katie feed on my right breast for 10 minutes before switching her to my left breast for another 10 minutes, and then back to my right breast if she was still hungry. Sure. I’ll yank her off my breast two or three times just for the sheer joy of reliving the trauma of getting her to latch on over and over again. Katie got one breast per meal, full or not. The down side to this strategy is that my breasts are always lopsided; one round and full, the other sagging and depleted like my husband’s wallet at Christmas.

But I don’t care. Being my baby’s milk wagon has given me larger jugs, lopsided or not. Now that I have a profile I can be proud of I have traded in my baggy t-shirts for tight sweaters and clingy dresses. It’s not that I’m vain; it’s just that I’m downright excited to have a bust line that would cross a finish line before my ribcage. And since this change in physique is temporary I’m going to show it off every chance I get. My husband also loves the “new” me. But that’s another story.

There are hazards to my new dress code though. The saying “There is no use crying over spilled milk” does not apply to me. I could scream every time my engorged milk ducts empty their contents all over me. It’s not the ruined clothes that bother me; it’s the embarrassment of walking around with wet patches on my breasts. I suppose it serves me right but I don’t care about justice when I’m in a chilly, crowded mall. Katie on the other hand barely notices when her milk truck tips over. Why should she? There’s plenty more where that came from.

Katie remains oblivious to my plight 24/7. She snoozes peacefully while I wake up in the middle of the night soaked in my own milk. Becoming a bed-wetter at the ripe old age of 39 is pathetic. Silly ‘ol me thought a couple of heavy-duty nursing pads shoved into my bra would protect me. I suppose they would if they stayed in place. Take it from me; they don’t do much good up around your armpits. Once I get myself dried off I usually share my dilemma with Katie. Is it wrong to tap on the side of her crib until she wakes up crying for the rest of my milk?

Leaking aside, I love nursing my baby. Every two hours we have the perfect excuse to cuddle up for some quiet time. The rest of the house could be bustling with noisy activity but it doesn’t invade our silent, growing bond. Well, silent may be an overstatement. Katie has a way of guzzling her meals like a starving hippo. She latches on with a smack and gulps my milk noisily until her hunger is satisfied.

I know Katie is full when she gives me a milky smile and turns me into a chew toy. That’s when feeding time is over. As she gets older, dinner time invariably blends into play time and I transform myself from waitress to wrestling opponent. Time flies by as we fill the room with laughter.

It can be exhausting being a human 7/11. I might as well walk around with a shirt that boldly proclaims “We never close”. Sleeping for eight consecutive hours has become nothing more than a dream for me, a dream that is constantly interrupted. But sleep deprivation is as much a part of motherhood as dirty diaper avoidance is to fatherhood, so I hike up my bra and get on with my day.