So, I had this baby, did you hear? I call her Porcelain because she was born on the toilet on Christmas Morning. (And like a modern-day Mary, I was attended by some wise women and a dog.) We’re nursing, of course. Although I barely breastfed my first three children, My Masterpiece only stopped because I wanted to have weight-loss surgery, and I hope Porcelain nurses for at least two years, which is what the World Health Organization recommends.
The problem is that Porcelain hates everything and everyone but nursing. Really. We’ll nurse, and she’ll be content to stare at the ceiling fan in milk-coma, and as soon as I try to pass her off to My Chemical Romance, she starts screaming and only nursing will help. And when Porcelain starts screaming, heaven help me if I take more than 2 minutes to whip out a boob. I am punished by the squawking and squalling. Heaven help any other person who wants to hold her, whether she is happy or not. Porcelain does NOT like you. Porcelain does NOT want you to cuddle her. Porcelain wants boob.
My Chemical Romance is getting a vasectomy in March.