October 15th, 2015 - Caroline Dohack
- donaldewquist
- Oct 14
- 3 min read
My tits smell like cheese these days. Sharp white cheddar, if you’d like specifics. For the past five months I’ve been redolent with sour milk and boob sweat, and my hair is coming out in handfuls. But my son sleeps through the night now, and I’m feeling less dead.
I came back came back to my newspaper job two months ago. In the women’s restroom there’s a small room with a door that locks. I spend a lot of time here with my electric breast pump, which I call my Obamaphone because the Affordable Care Act forced my cheapo insurance provider to pay for it. They won’t pony up for my hospital stay, though, and I still owe about three grand. Motherfuckers.
I cry every time my milk lets down. Almost a decade later this sense of despair will have a name — dysphoric milk ejection reflex, or D-MER — and you’ll be able to read all about it in medical journals. But for now, an intensely sudden emptiness takes my breath away. You know the chestburster scene in Alien? That’s what I feel like, minus the whole Xenomorph thing.
I cry over spilt milk. Every drop is precious. I pull a sodden rag from my bra and estimate it’s sopped up half an ounce of leakage. What a waste. Despite the volumes of licorice-tasting fenugreek tea I’ve been chugging, my output has dwindled since I returned to work. My son’s not gaining much weight. His pediatrician tells me it’s fine to supplement with formula. I know her advice is medically sound, but as a former farm kid I’m reminded of the baby goats we bottle fed in the kitchen when their mothers couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of them. Wanna know what happened to those nannies? To the meat man!
But there’s no crying in the mommy message boards. Speak not of your stitch itch, your cracked nipples, your partner who can’t or won’t show up in the way you need. We are so lucky. We are so blessed. Other people would give everything to be us. We come together like a jam band to perform our gratitude — endless noodling with a few inspired solos, but it’s all “Tripping Billies.”
Conversations were a trip before we popped. During one especially lively debate on circumcision — to clip or to keep? — a mother-to-be (over)shared that she wanted her son to look just like her husband. Winky-face emoji. That was a point I’d not considered. What if some political skirmish erupts and her family is separated by roving bands of — well, gosh, I don’t know who the bad guys are but trust me, okay? — and the first thing they do is alter all identifying attributes — tattoos and teeth, freckles and scars — so that when order is eventually restored it will be harder for people to reunite with their loved ones. So devious. But they didn’t think of everything, did they? This lady is going to be grateful she had foresight into foreskins.
I’ve always been an ace catastrophizer. Give me a worst-case scenario and I’ll turbocharge it. But now, less fleet of foot and with a tiny person to protect, I’m not having as much fun with this talent. Later, a psychiatric resident will hear my anxiety as ambivalence toward motherhood. “You’re just not a natural,” she’ll tell me, as if a solid fight-or-flight response isn’t as natural as it gets.
But like any animal, I’ve adapted survival strategies. Notably, an outsized persona. It reads as extroversion, but it’s ventriloquism. If I throw my voice over there, you won’t see me over here.
Now standing at the mirror, I dab at a slick of baby snot with a wetted paper towel. It disintegrates as I scrub, leaving me looking like a failed papier-mâché project. I angle sideways to examine myself in profile. I don’t know what my body really looks like right now, but all the absorbent pads I’ve stuffed into my bra have me looking stacked. Yes, if you look closely you’ll see things aren’t quite as smooth as they should be, but I wouldn’t recommend it.
Remember, I absolutely reek.
