Too much information

Let's talk about my breasts. I've been doing it so much recently that it's become habit. I talk about breastfeeding with my pregnant friends. I talk about it with my wanna-be pregnant friends. I talk about it nonstop with my friends who have just had babies.

Mostly, I complain about how difficult and stressful this supposedly easy and natural act turned out to be. Sure, the kid has turned into a chubby-cheeked little beast over the past month or so. The process has gone from more than an hour -- breaks for weeping included -- to a tidy 45 minutes. The -- feel free to cringe here -- cracks have almost healed. And yes, I'm a tad less anxious about making sure I feed her precisely three hours after the last time lips met nips. But this basic act of providing food to my newborn still causes immense angst. I've stopped worrying that I'm starving TheGirl.

Instead, I worry that I won't have enough milk to feed her when I go back to work. I panic daily over whether my poor, sore chest is producing enough -- am I down today? Am I up? Will I ever be able to feed my kid without using this silicone nipple shield they gave me in the hospital? Is something I ate causing my darling daughter to fart everytime I stick her on the breast?

The scary thing: My issues are nothing compared to other women I've met. This week, I attended a breastfeeding support group and sat feeling pretty good about my lot while, in one example, the mother of a three-month old boy talked about having to buy milk from other women because she is still not producing enough.

I am still waiting for that wonderful, ray-of-sunshine-through-the-clouds moment when breastfeeding stops being the fundamental, constant worry of my life and starts becoming a joyous, easy bonding experience with my child. At the moment, this is my job, my to-be-paid-later 24/7 occupation. Honestly, it's harder than that thing for which I get paid.