The U.S. election is finally coming to an end and, based on the comments on Facebook at least, I figure everyone could use a little levity. So this post isn’t about politicians, but it is about boobs. (I know, sort of the same thing. Still…)
First let me say that having a baby when you also have a four-year-old is fascinating. Connor tells me quite often that he knows all about babies and I don’t, but I don’t argue with him because (a) I certainly don’t know all about babies, so it would be silly to pretend I do, and (b) he likes to help, and who am I to say no to that? But sometimes his way of helping leaves me laughing.
When Ethan was born, Connor wanted to help feed him by giving him a bottle, because that’s how he thought babies were fed. That might be from books or TV, or it might be because he has been around when my twin nephews are being bottle fed. In any case, we explained to him that Ethan doesn’t have bottles yet but that I feed him, and that when Ethan does have a bottle he can help.
That was all well and good, but he wants to help NOW. Well, sure. Kind of awkward but we’ve figured out how to let him help – he can bring the nursing pillow and a receiving blanket, and in the early days when he wanted to be right in there I let him unsnap the clasp on my nursing bra. (He seems to have given that up now.)
Nursing baby, hidden nickels.
I have no qualms about breastfeeding in front of Connor. We’re not (yet?) keeping our nakedness hidden from him, and I wouldn’t worry about it with this anyway. It’s just feeding a baby. Yet somehow he knows there’s something sort of private about it.
It’s the nickels, you see. That’s what Connor calls nipples — I have no idea how that started but he obviously misheard and we’re horrible parents who think it’s too funny to correct him — and he’s quite concerned about making sure no one sees mine.
One day early on I was feeding Ethan in the car while we waited for Rich to run into a store. As I was getting ready a car pulled up next to us and, in an effort not to flash the male driver, I paused. Connor wanted to know why I was waiting, so I explained.
“Oh,” he said. “Because you don’t want him to see your nickels, right?”
Um, right.
Ditto in the mall last week, where he was extra helpful, announcing as we walked towards a lounge area that we need to find a place to feed Ethan where no one can see my nickels.
So much for being discreet.
Ah, four-year-olds. Gotta love ’em, right?
