Recent discussions about baby-proofing our future have caused me to reflect on and rant about the lack of physical contribution that the male body makes when it comes to reproductive matters (despite the rather essential  tadpole offering that facilitates baby-making). It’s not their fault, but someone has to be held accountable.

We (women, that is – I am assuming that the majority of you are female) assume at least part of, sometimes sole, responsibility for contraception, before we succumb to ‘instincts’ (or insanity). We ride the waves of nausea, dizziness and erractic eating during pregnancy. We lug a bowling ball on our front (and around our sides if the ball is female….kidding) and then pass this ball through our most delicate orifice in the most primal and undignifying way. We donate our breasts to milk production, inflamed and infected ducts, stretching and then drooping. And then we start back at artificial hormones.

The men? The only transformation that their bodies undergo around the years of reproduction is the loss of some strands of hair, the greying of others and a little more spread around the gut. So, can we return to sender? Or do we just need to accept that women have been chosen for these roles because we are simply braver, stronger and, well, more superior?

They started out as firm, shiny nectarines (let’s not even pretend that they ever got close to resembling melons of any kind) – plump, juicy, full of goodness. They have now begun to resemble a pair of dull, furry, shrivelled up peaches, perfect for feeding to the chooks.

You also know that your breasts are nearing their used by when you wind up feeling like death, lying in bed all weekend, courtesty of a pink line that marks the spot of a blocked duct. A mechanism tiring, losing efficiency, screaming out to be switched off.

You know that your breasts are growing weary when that first maternity bra now gapes embarrassingly, a clear indication of the space that was once filled.

Don’t get me wrong, when a feed is missed, they do their utmost to mimic the nectarines of an earlier era, but they are forever changed, more suited to a life swimming in fruit juice, locked away in a tin can to be served with something a little more appealing, like ice-cream.

As the Baby becomes less of a baby, and more of a cookie monster, keen for something, anything to chomp down on and create an unbelievable mess with, the peaches are realising that their time is nearing for retirement. I wish them a smooth, painless transition into their new phase of existence. Peaches and cream anyone?

People refer to hindsight as being ‘great’. Truth be told, I think it’s rather irritating. There are times when I would rather have a complete lack of insight, because what I seem to learn from hindsight frustrates me and there’s nothing I can do about it, bar time travel, and I can’t afford that.

Hindsight has delivered two main learnings, as I have reflected on my Big Boy’s babyhood:

1. A mummy does know her body and her baby better than anyone else, and if we were allowed to just get on the with the job, we would probably do it better! I nearly punched a midwife when she came to check how breastfeeding was going with child number two. ‘Yeah, we’re doing well, thanks,’ I had reported proudly. At this point I expected her to smile sweetly, congratulate me and float quietly from the room with her clipboard. Not so. Having never laid eyes on me or Baby before this encounter, she suggested that I try a different feeding technique, just because ‘that’s how you’re meant to do it’. Serious? I just said that we were doing fine, NOW LEAVE US ALONE!

2. No bomb is going to explode if you attempt to put baby to breast before the recommended two and a half hours is up. If the baby is hungry, feed it – it may well have a big appetite (as my Big Boy does, and obviously did). All those times I panicked and clumsily squished him into the pram’s cocoon to pacify him with a bolt around the block because it had only been two hours since his last feed, he was probably thinking, ‘Is this woman crazy? All I want is a god damned drink!’

3. If your baby happens to fall asleep while you’re cuddling him, you’re not setting him up for complete dependence on cuddles for achieving sleep for the rest of his life. Enjoy those baby cuddles because Big Boys prefer to simply jump on you.

I am breastfeeding and proud of it. Proud in the knowledge that my breasts alone are able to sustain another human life. Proud that I am boosting my child’s health, present and future. Proud that this feeding has facilitated my recovery from pregnancy and birth (though the effectiveness of breastfeeding in vanishing stretch marks is yet to be demonstrated). But most of all I am proud that I am managing to make myself available to this child 24 hours a day, 7 days a week…ALL THE TIME. I’m on-call, on alert, on demand.

Proud, but somewhat resentful. Can’t I just have a wee break? I wasn’t feeling quite so disgruntled until recently, when a fellow mummy sighed, citing new parent fatigue. I nodded enthusiastically and released a mammoth sigh of my own, setting myself up for a whinge about breastfeeding on demand and the broken sleep and limited independence it necessitated. That discussion never eventuated because my conversation partner went on to state that her baby fed like clockwork, every four hours, and that, with the assistance of her husband, she was able to sleep from 9pm til 4am. I was dumbfounded and insanely jealous. Her trick? Bottle feeding.

My breast pride melted away and I felt cheated. Why couldn’t I get that much sleep? Why couldn’t I just up and leave the house, not having to worry about being back within two hours in case my udder was required or requested? And remind me, why, why did I choose to breastfeed? Oh, that’s right, the health benefits, the cost benefits, the convenience. Convenience? I’ll tell you what would be convenient – to give my breasts to someone else for a day and get some rest!

I hadn’t really appreciated how physically and emotionally draining breastfeeding can be. It is a sacrifice, a selfless gift to my child. So to all breastfeeding women out there, charge your glasses. Here’s to us leaking, lumpy, squirty, sleepy dairy cattle. Three cheers! Cue chink of glasses and, of course, spilt milk.

The maternal and child health nurse told me not to feed my first son any more frequently than three hourly…two and a half if I absolutely had to.  Because of this I watched the clock obsessively and did many laps of the block with my Phil & Teds in order to stretch out his next feed.  It did my head in and I vowed this time to just go with the flow, to feed on demand (within reason…whatever that is). But it takes extreme willpower and a nudge or three from my husband to get me out of bed during the night to feed, so needless to say, I want to know that my effort is in response to a reasonable request, and the clock guides my reaction to the squawk from the nursery.

In the first week or so I tried using the time thing overnight to nudge my husband out of bed for settling duties, stating firmly in my husky voice that I simply couldn’t fulfil that role because our child would smell my delicious milkiness and decide, regardless of the actual reason for awakening, that he wanted to feed. Doesn’t work now…my husband is on to me and sees it for what it is…procrastination and denial.

During the day I try to glance at the clock only fleetingly, avoiding lengthy (purely due to the heaviness of The Fog) time calculations. If the hour hand has moved roughly two numbers along, I relent and unclip the bra. If it’s moved three or more numbers along I feel relieved and proud (of him or me, I’m not sure).  If it’s moved even further than four numbers around the clock face I feel like the luckiest person alive – a slightly different reaction to my ‘Oh god, what if he’s dead in in his cot?’ frame of mind when my first born had a lengthy sleeping stint.

Oh, and sometimes I check the clock to work  out when my next feed is due, and whether it is reasonable to squeeze in a chocolatey snack before the next main meal (for the record, it is always reasonable, according to the objective clock).