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tales of something simple - i fed my baby from a bottle cap, don’t judge

i believe

Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

all types of chaos

i fed my baby from a bottle cap, don't judge

Marley and I ventured out to the mall today.  Yes, I was dumb enough to drive an hour to the mall with a baby who unpredictably likes to eat.  I brought along a bottle of freshly squeezed breast milk in the event that she was hungry and none of the innocent shoppers by the fountain with pennies had dollar bills to throw at my corner for the tit show.  As I am aimlessly driving around the mall parking lot, also known as geographical hell (why do they need so many department stores?) I am lamely convincing my three-week old that yes, we will find Neiman Marcus, we will park, she will not die of starvation and she will eat.  She repeatedly cried harmonic wails of “fuck you, feed me.”

So we park and I run around to the back seat, at this point still singing about how she will not starve…more to soothe myself than her.  I slide in next to her and whip out her bottle.  Yes, the bottle.  While the girls were primed, full and ready to feed, I was insistant on making sure that breast milk did not go to waste.  When I was pregnant and learning about breast feeding (this shit is an ART and yes, a learning curve comes in tow!) I used to read the words “your precious breast milk” in all the reading material they give you.  It totally used to creep me out, my precious milk.  It felt like calling a dick “cute,” out of place and awkward for all parties involved.  However, now that I know of the work involved in not only manufacturing and then milking myself, breast milk is now dubbed liquid gold.  Therefore, this bottle was NOT going to waste, and I knew she would eat it much quicker from there than from the cow…me, and let’s face it, it was already going on three hours since we had gotten ready for this trip out to visit great-grandma at work.

I pull out the bottle and to my dismay I see I have Mommy Flubbed (formally Mommy fuck-up, prior to birth however I guess now I should attempt to be sort of PG…13).  I have brought along the wrong kind of bottle.  It’s the one with the wicked evil fast nipple flow that always brings along its friends spitting, spillage and tongue thrusting.  I know this will not be pretty.  I put it in her mouth anyway, hoping that this one time Evenflo will not fail me and she will take it, love it and not a single drop of my creepy precious breast milk will fall out of her mouth.  WRONG.

All over the outfit (super cute), neck, face.  All over.  Epic fail.  Plan B.  I try squirting the nipple (not mine, Evenflo’s) into her mouth in an attempt to give her less this way than with her sucking on it.  The bottle started to leak (apparently it liked its nipple being squeezed as much as I like mine being squeezed) and this venture ended promptly.  We sit quietly and stare. I am still determined  to avoid removing all layers of clothing to feed her from my boob.  At this point its just the challenge I am trying to conquer (caveat: obviously if she were still screaming her head off  we would not have played this game but since she had already started to eat from my other attempted methods she was finding this as amusing as I was.  After all, she is my daughter.)

I get crafty.  I spy a water bottle in the front seat.  Bingo.  I unscrew the cap and pour a tiny amount of milk into it.  I turn to her, we lock eyes and just like she is reading my mind she opens her mouth.  In I pour.  Suc freaking sess.  She closes her mouth and swallows.  We repeat.  And repeat and repeat.

An ounce and a half later we are back in business and out of hunger lunacy.  We prance into the mall in the moby wrap I did myself like a pro in the parking lot, her smiling from gas and me from being awesome.

Now on the way home I sang loudly all of the ABC’s from the PA Turnpike to the exit until I could pull over at a Boston Market for another milking session, this time a live one.

Yes, I fed my baby from a bottle cap.  Don’t judge.

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