glances at her husband, seeking his permission. “Is there any … Does a woman have to be, you know …” She makes arthritic hands in front of her chest.
“No. This is not Juggs magazine. Size really does not matter.”
Another hand goes up. It is the teen mom. Flecks of black polish dot the stubs of her chewed-off nails. A tiny bell hanging from the ring on her thumb tinkles. “My mom”—she gives her mother a die-bitch look—“told me that formula is more complete nutrition and that breast-feeding is just in right now, but that it’s a fad. And my boobs’ll droop if I do it.”
“A fad? I’m sure that Joseph was out trying to find a convenience store open at night to buy some formula for Mary.”
The mother folds her arms over her chest and I make a note to myself to schedule some extra, free visits with her daughter.
“Breast-feeding won’t make your boobs droop any more than having a baby will. But it will help you lose weight like a speed freak.”
I wince inwardly and search the room for any possible speed freaks. There don’t seem to be any candidates, but you never know. I make a note to myself to remove “speed freak” from the routine. The last thing I want to do is alienate any mother or father trying to do right by a child.
A Latina with the bone structure of a Slavic supermodel says, “My doctor told me that I would have to pump and dump for five days after I had even one drink.”
“Really? Five days? I’d like to know where the formula company sent that doctor for a cruise. No, the rule is: If it’s in the head, it’s in the milk. If you feel drunk, don’t nurse. But nursing is not like being pregnant. You can eat sushi; you can change the cat box. Just don’t eat the cat box. A drink or two is not going to hurt your baby. In fact, a beer now and again might increase your milk volume.”
Two young women, whom I assume are sisters because of their identical sloping chins, give each other party-girl thumbs-ups.
“One beer,” I emphasize. The sisters press fingers against their lips to suppress naughty-me grins.
Without raising her hand, a large woman in a tight-fitting top that makes her look roughly thirteen months pregnant starts speaking in a loud voice. “I have a whole different deal. This is my second”—she pats her stomach—“and my first one wanted to nurse all the time. Twenty-four/seven. Nonstop. My nipples were like hamburger meat.”
In the front row, the husband of the woman in yoga pants glances back at Hamburger Nipples, shudders, and shakes his head to dislodge the image.
“Yeah, and your husband might want to have sex three times a day. But we don’t always get what we want, and we don’t let ten-pound people make the decisions.” Then I tell her, tell the whole class—mostly, though, I tell myself—my mantra: “There’s a reason that God gives the little people to the big people.”
I start in on the lecture portion of the class with this basic fact: “Women have two breasts because all mammals have one more teat than the average litter. And it looks better in a sweater.”
Clutching the weighted doll in the crook of my arm, I use Lady Gaga and my own breast to demonstrate the football hold. We cover colostrum, letdown, engorgement, and, the holy grail of breast-feeding, the good latch.
We watch a video that features a new mother having a beatific, transcendent nursing experience. I take a seat next to Dori as the infant’s fuzzy head roots at his blissed-out mother’s breast and I narrate. “Breast-feeding is exactly like that. Except that you’re late to work, the baby was up all night with croup, your sitter just called and said she locked her keys in her car, and your two-year-old, who you’re pretty sure has head lice, is in the bathroom trying to flush the cheese grater down the toilet. Other than that, it’s all serenity and bliss.”
A few seconds later I remember that I forgot the trust agreement for Aubrey’s tuition. I whisper to Dori, “I’ve got to zip back to the house and pick up the papers we’ll need at the bank. Could you finish up the class? I’ll come back for you, then we’ll pick Aubrey up from here. Okay?”
“Sure.”
I pause the video to tell the class I have to leave early. “But don’t worry about breast-feeding. Like everything else