We are currently caring for a baby. He is, of course, the cutest 7-month old ever to crawl the planet and having him in our home has many perks. Babies smell good – except when they don’t – and are absurdly adorable when they smile those nearly toothless grins. He gives me hope for the future that a new generation might be able to go forth and make better use of this planet than those of us old enough to read this have. He is extremely alert and attentive to small details. He already likes to read books. Okay, chew on books, but he does look at the pictures first before deciding which thick page to nibble upon. Baby energy is good. It is on 100% nearly 24/7, but it is a good and happy energy.
What I did not know, however, is that 26-lb babies are also boob crushers. There, I said it, and if you’re likely to watch over a baby anytime soon, you have been forewarned.
I have taken care of babies in the past, but I do not remember this booby-crushing-baby phenomenon from my previous experiences. Or perhaps my breasts are just that much older and not as perky and resilient as they once were. But what I write here is the truth. Caring for a baby of this age is like living in a random mammogram machine. I kid you not. Pun intended.
When he sleeps next to me, I am charmed by his noises. They do not bother me. I am even prepared for the tiny smacks when he shifts position and an arm falls heavily upon me. This does not bother me. And truthfully, when his little feet kick me at just the right spot on my lower back, it actually feels pretty good. This does not bother me in the slightest and I would be happy to train him to do this little kick maneuver for five-minute periods of time at regular intervals.
When, however, I am lying on my side, warm in my autumnal sweatshirt and pajamas, facing his gorgeous self and he rolls over onto my resting breast – holy bajeezus that hurts like a mother #(*&ing expletive. Or, god forbid, he decides that is the moment to awaken and pushes his hand against me in an attempt to get up. Or, worst of all, when he full on stands on one; oh my [insert words I don’t want to type here] if it doesn’t make me want to cry. Fine, it makes me cry. A 7-month old can make me cry. Add in cramps, tenderness and fatigue and you’re done for.
If you have ever had a mammogram, you know the pain of which I speak. If you have never had a mammogram, have a baby weighing a minimum of 25lbs stand on your breast and you may know the pain of which I speak (although I don’t recommend it). If you do not happen to have breasts to smash, well, I hope you never experience a similar pain. I’m thinking of wearing a sports bra for the remainder of his visit. Maybe a flak jacket.
It is not the worst pain I have ever endured, but it is up there high on a relatively short list I like to call “Pain I Will Never Forget” and it achieves that position both due to the level of “ouch” but also because it is being thrust upon me by such an otherwise endearing tiny human that I do not dare complain. Except here, of course, where I write whatever I damn well please so I have chosen to complain. About booby-smashing babies. And now you know.
May your day be filled with adorable cuteness and zero pain.