Working Boobs

There are 2 types of boobs out there: decorative boobs and working boobs. For close to 33 years, I had the former. I remember choosing shirts and sweaters that enhanced their decorative aspect and, at times, downplaying the decor- like when hanging out at most of the New Onions dives where the average boob man weighs in a little under 3 bucks.
I was never one for fancy lingerie, but never did I imagine wearing bras with snaps and a harness system and having to insert the equivalent of a breast maxi-pad to insure against leaks. I am a round-the-clock milk machine, and the days are pretty much the same. Every 2 hours, you can find me topless with Zev attached to one of my nutritious planet-sized bosoms. In fact, it's like an episode of Animal Planet over here. When you call me, there is a good chance that I am answering the phone with a few diaper cloths underneath each boob, and I may even be attached to an electric pump. That's when I turn from Lucy the hominid into a cow on the milk line. Indeed I have working boobs. Strange to think of grown men and their fascination for breasts. I learned this on t.v., but did you know that in only 19 countries in the world are breasts thought of as erotic?
When Zev was born, my boobs officially went into service. The preceding 40+ weeks should've primed them for action. For the first couple of days, nothing visible was coming out of them. But the lactation consultants urged me to keep up with it, so that I could get Zev off to a good start suckling. It felt kind of silly and spastic, as neither mother nor child knew how to to this. Apparently, there was colostrum seeping out which I've been told is like an infant power-bar. Around the 3rd day, my milk "came in," special delivery which resulted in stretched out water balloons that took up most of the real estate on from below my neck to above my diaphragm. Now, it should get easy, right?
The lactation consultants appeared every hour or so to make sure that it was going well. I couldn't get it going on, for one reason or another.
Never in my life had by boobs been manhandled like this, and by so many different hands. Every consultant had a different technique to prepare them for feeding that involved squeezing my nipples with a vice-grip as if to wring them out. One of those sensations that can really take your breath away. You know the face you make when you've taken a shot of tequila- well, that was me and luckily there weren't any cameras around to capture those mugs. Okay, so once milk was extracted, we throw Zev in the mix and watch him go. Poor guy was like a blind puppy, pursing his lips and trying to keep up with this giant deflated white volleyball being shoved into his mouth by a team of ladies in teddy-bear scrubs. He would cry, and the milk would shoot into his eyes and onto his forehead. Five months later, we're both pros. I often imagine the 2 of us competing against other mother-baby teams almost like a pie-eating contest. I am still amazed at how other mammals know how to do it the minute they are born. I guess that's why not all puppies, calfs, and kittens survive- some know how to nurse while others struggle to get into the mix.

So, go ahead, enjoy your own boobs or someone else's. I just thought I'd ramble about mine, since they do elicit many comments these days.