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?

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.

Larger breasts and cleavage have been a novelty for me. Unfortunately I know from experience that not only will these full, life-giving organs shrink when breastfeeding ceases, but I will be rendered even less womanly than I was before pregnancy! Perhaps the World Health Organisation is onto something when it suggests breastfeeding for two years…

Wearing trackies and Ugg boots is another benefit, as is showering in the second half of the day. Any excuse to wear my comfy clothes is warmly welcomed, but when does the newborn-in-the-house concession expire? When will I be expected to dress up a bit more, perhaps upgrading to jeans and slip-ons? Maybe the time has already passed and I’m just oblivious to the disapproving vibes from my more decently clad family and friends. And what about the shower thing? When will I have to be showered and shampooed before lunch, even in the absence of a morning appointment or outing?

I see other mums at the shops and can’t help but note their appearance, generally in stark contrast to my loose, elastic, sensible clothing. I wonder if they have been planted there by a higher power to make a point…something along the lines of ,’There ain’t no excuse woman!”. These mothers have shiny hair and wear eyeshadow,  jewelery and heels. They are showered, probably wearing perfume and looking calm. God damn them, making me look bad. Don’t they know about the unspoken concessions of trackies and Uggs? If they do, then the only possible explanation is that they have 24 hour nannies, in house stylists and predictable, perfect babies. God damn them!