‘Has he latched on?’
Um, excuse me? As in, attached? As in like a latch on a door? To what exactly? Do I tie him to the bed? The curtains? Come again? Wait, don’t leave. You asked me something confusing. He’s small, he’s perfect. Latched? Have you seen his little feet? No, don’t start commenting on the weather. You seem to have uttered something important. I’m wearing bandages all over my stomach, I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours, I seem to be covered in my own sick. I haven’t called my friends. He’s got the cutest nose and we’re not sure what we’re going to call him but you seem to have said something vital. Latched? Like a pincer? Hold on. Come back.
‘Sorry, love. I mean latched, as in has he started drinking your milk?’
MILK? Oh, I hadn’t got to that section of the ‘what to do when you’re pregnant’ book. I see, so that’s what they’re for…
That was March 17th 2003. As a young person I had thought my boobs were for making boys fancy me, I thought that ‘getting them out’ was a way to attract others. I thought that having big round bouncy boobs was the actual answer. Like everyone else I thought a Wonderbra would make all the difference. I wore big bras, red bras, skinny-strap 70s triangular bras. I flattened my breasts so I could look all fashion and cool and I threw real chicken fillets (they only really smell if you use them more than twice) under them so that I could lift and separate and make the tops all wobbly. And here I was a hundred years later and I was working out the pure and real magic of a boob.
He did latch on and he suckled and drained and squeaked and got all full up and then he would sleep on my neck like a little drunkard. Girls and boys, boobs are brilliant. Mainly because you can whip them out and feed a baby – at Café Rouge (April 2007), at the cinema (apologies to the people next to us at Bad Santa but I thought the snuffling didn’t totally ruin the movie) and at the airport when you’ve been delayed nine hours (no, Iberia, I still haven’t totally forgiven you).
Breasts are excellent. And if you don’t believe me – ask my kids.