It wasn't until my husband's ownership was threatened that I realized he really thought they were his. When we learned I was pregnant, and the elation-fear cocktail wore off, we started building our parenting philosophy. Of course I'd nurse. Or at least try. My husband was all for it, until he heard me say something about my breasts being off-limits. Although I had yet to experience breastfeeding, I could already tell you I did not want any accidental adult nursing sessions during sex.
My husband had many months to say good-bye to his best friends, and I had many months to overthink the fear of breastfeeding. It was really difficult to set aside the sexual component of my breasts. That's what they were made for, right? (Wrong.) I just couldn't imagine an infant latched on to something that was, for me, purely sexual.
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Our baby arrived in late August, and after a few weeks of agonizing pain (don't let anyone tell you different), we got the hang of breastfeeding. That's right around the time my husband begrudgingly handed over the title to our daughter. And she declared victory. I, er, rather, my boobs, became her sole source of comfort. Why take a pacifier when there are two lovely milk-producing anodynes right here? And as I mentioned, we did get the hang of nursing, but with a slight glitch: She preferred the left one to the right. Which means the left one produced more milk and was perpetually larger than the right one. (I actually felt bad for the right one—so neglected and sad!) New parenthood sex is infrequent to begin with; unveiling seriously lopsided breasts made it practically non-existent. Read: Having A Baby Improved My Sex Life
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Nursing became an involuntary part of life. In fact, when I think back, it's a feeling I can't conjure any longer. I remember being proud of my successful efforts to soothe her, but it feels foreign now, just nine months after I weaned her.