As the birth of my thirdchild approaches, breastfeeding anxiety is setting in. It’s not that I had problems feeding my two boys. On the contrary, my milk supply was ample and both of them were sucking away in no time.
What’s haunting me is the latter part of the love-hate relationship I have with nursing: leaking breasts the size of watermelons; feeling like I belong on a meadow among the cows; constantly smelling of breast milk; horrible cotton pads stuffed into bras that look like something from Grandma’s underwear drawer; and being the only one who can feed the baby in the middle of the night. Continue reading →