Two Things New Mothers Never Need

Lucky me got both in one hospital stay

I would never tell an expectant mother that nursing a baby is easy or instinctive. Unless you grew up in a multi-generational situation with hordes of extended family up in your business — nursing a baby might be as familiar as replacing your car’s transmission.

After my first son was born and plopped onto my chest in front of what felt like a Medieval audience urging me on to let the lad suckle, I felt panic and sheer confusion. Not being a wet nurse by trade, I had no fucking clue what I was doing.

It didn’t help that my baby was born “tongue-tied” — rendering breastfeeding as comfy as dipping your toes in the piranha-laden waters of the Amazon.

After several failed attempts and the increasing intensity of my newborn’s primal hunger shrieks, reinforcements were sent in. Phew!

Everything was going to be okay. I’d be under the tutelage of a pro — a kind, gentle nurse who’d coached scores of new mothers along the arduous journey of breastfeeding.

There was a knock on the door and my body softened into the bed. I looked up like a child who’d been waiting for the ice cream truck to arrive.

“Hi there, I’m Nurse Jeremy. I hear you need a little help breastfeeding! Let’s take a look here.”

An ice cream truck from the depths of hell.

My eager smile turned into a confused grimace and my entire body tensed as Jeremy bent down and carefully eyed the situation. I locked eyes with my husband who anxiously massaged his temples.

Jeremy, bless his breastless soul, proceeded to offer up vague, mechanical instructions as if my teats were throttles in a cockpit.

Jeremy: “Turn your right breast counter clockwise, 45-degrees, cock the baby’s head back, then take a pinky and insert it into his mouth.”

Me: “I don’t have a third hand unless that’s what will exit my vagina next. And this may be faulty mechanics, but my right breast does not swivel like the possessed child’s head in The Exorcist.”

Jeremy: “Try the left then.”

Me: “You said what now?”

Jeremy: “Yes, go ahead, try the left. Remember, swivel it 45 degrees — ”

Me: “Hey Jeremy — would you like to see the one part of my body that does swivel?” I did my best mobster-tough-guy hand gesture, but remembered I had a helpless, tiny creature in my arms doing that weird guppy-suckie face in a desperate attempt to catch some grub.

Husband: “Okay Jeremy! Thanks so much for stopping by. Before things take a violent turn, do you think you could find another nurse to help? Maybe someone a little more female?”

Jeremy: “Okay… it’s sort of a skeleton crew out there given the time, but let me see what I can do.”

My husband had never looked so heroic.

About 20 minutes later, an older lady giving off serious Woodstock vibes (the 60’s edition) entered the room. After the Jeremy debacle, I was down with having an earth-mama coach me through this nerve-fraying occasion. She’s a woman after all! And that fact alone should make this a far more comfortable experience.

The new nurse, we’ll call her “Willow,” surveyed the situation and beckoned my husband to come closer. The fuck is he going to be able to do I wondered, but trusted Willow by virtue of being a woman and having long braids. She must know her shit.

Willow: “Okay dad, you’re going to come down to the baby’s level and make some suckling sounds like this.”

Willow proceeded to demonstrate what sounded like a frat guy trying to suck the beer from the tap of an empty keg. I shuddered.

Husband: “Okay, really?” He was sweating.

Willow eagerly nodded.

Husband: “Um, here goes.”

He crouched down beside me and repeated the horrifying suckling sounds Willow had just made.

Me: “Gahhhhhh!!!”

Willow: “This is perfectly natural. Hearing the suckling sounds from dad will encourage the baby to do the same.”

Me: “And will also encourage me to projectile vomit all over this room. Can we just get some formula for my baby? This isn’t working.”

I knew the F word would send Willow into a manic state.

Willow: “You can do this. This is a critical part of the bonding process and dad just needs to get down there and do it louder. Go on now dad!”

Husband: “Okay…like this?” My poor heroic husband from moment’s ago transformed into Golem before my eyes.

Me: “GAHHHHHHHH!!!!! No no no no no no no. We’ll take some formula, please. Now”

Willow, shooting me with eyeball daggers: “I’ll talk to the head nurse, but I really think you should try again and maybe this time dad just needs to — ”

Me: “Nooooooooooooo. Just no.”

Husband: “Okay, so no more sucking noises?”

Me: shooting him with eyeball daggers.

Husband: “Formula it is!”

Another 20 minutes later, a different nurse showed up with the contraband. My writhing baby devoured it and immediately passed out. The nurse strapped me into a breast pump so I could still do my “motherly duties” before my breasts exploded — or worse — I became a formula-wielding pariah. This was San Francisco after all.

My son is 10 now and seems to have recovered from the unacceptable amounts of formula he consumed as a baby — and honestly, his tail comes in quite handy in sports.

For any expectant mothers out there — may you never have a man teach you how to breastfeed — more importantly, may you never ever have to hear your husband being coached by a hippie to make slurping, suckling sounds at your teat next to your flailing newborn.

I still can’t watch people eat ramen or drink from straws.