Disproportionate

When you breastfeed, shapes and sizes change.

With three children under six, I should know.

“Which one’s bigger?” my wife will ask me to determine which to offer the baby first.

It used to be, “Which one did she – or he – feed off last?”

My hesitation – “Well, ah…” – probably led her to simplify and just ask about size.

I’ve got pretty laid back about it all now. I’ll glance up, look right then left and point (or nod) and say, “That one,” and then get back to what I was doing. Three seconds, ho hum. But tonight she’s frantic. She’s lamenting about disproportions and the future. Uh oh. Quick, think up something to make her feel better, lend her support.

I’m trying to when my eldest daughter says, “Me too, Mummy. Just look at my leg. It’s growing all funny. It’s so, so much bigger than my other leg. And this toe. It is so much bigger than this toe. My body is crazy.”

That’s solidarity. And my rescue.

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