Nothing makes me feel quite so inadequate as the sight of a well-dressed woman with a baby nursing discreetly at her breast like a stylish accessory. I have tried nursing bras and nursing tops, blankets, burpies and hooter hiders. I am apparently just not up to the mechanical challenge of covering my breasts while nursing my baby. My options are therefore few: 1) Starve my child or 2)  Just pull up whatever stretchy schmatta I am wearing and take out the damn boob.

I think that Lila put it best when, after three months of watching me nurse Lou every two hours, she hollered, “I don’t want to see your boobies!” I can’t say I much blame her. When it becomes physically possible to hand your boob to someone, things have taken a turn.

I sincerely hope that there is a special circle of hell reserved for the person who invented the breast pump. If I had any dignity left before, it disappeared the moment I started clamping a funnel to breast every day to a chorus of weh-eh-weh-eh-weh-eh-weh-eh. My friend Sho Sho is convinced that the breast pumps are talking to us, which is just ridiculous. I think it’s perfectly obvious that they’re laughing at us.