Tits Up


A lady called Stella Onions has been making the news recently because she’s still breastfeeding her two children, who are five and three respectively. There really is something about breastfeeding in general that brings out the mimsy,squeamish, mouth-like-a-cat’s-arse attitude. I found breastfeeding very difficult, as one of my breasts obstinately refused to squirt out anything more than a dribble, despite being plugged into a turbo suction breast pump for what felt like 23 hours a day. It didn’t help that various relatives kept telling me to “keep trying because it’s best for baby”. You think? I wrote a piece about My Lactating Hell, and despite telling FIVE sub-editors that no, I didn’t feel guilty, just fed up, when I saw the piece, in large letters across the top was written: Jane Felt Really Guilty At Not Being Able to Breastfeed. Not Surpising as This Meant She Was a Shit Mother. (Or something similar).

So despite being bombarded with information about how good breastfeeding is for the baby, I couldn’t manage to keep it up for more than a few months. But it seems you’re just as much vilified if you keep going for longer than the designated six months. And if you’re still breastfeeding when the children can ask for it, then you’re “disgusting” and “unnatural.” I remember seeing a programme called Extreme Breastfeeding where one man expressed his disgust at a group of women feeding on a park bench as “it encourages them paedo-fiddliers”.

As for the health benefits, despite only breastfeeding The Boy for three months, he’s so disgustingly healthy, I sometimes think about The Omen where Lee Remick suddenly realises that her devilish offspring is NEVER ILL. But then again, these days, I often fantasise about checking The Boy’s scalp for the ‘666’ mark. Not that I’d go anywhere near his scalp. My fingers would stick.

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