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By the end of May I was swollen of foot, hand and belly to the point that a single butterfly perched upon my abdomen surely would have split asunder the stretched-tight skin, allowing the new person inside me to burst forth in a shimmery shower of liquid.

Unfortunately no butterflies landed on my abdomen, or if they did, their weight was insufficient to push down the huge child I’d grown. I walked, I ate spicy food, I masturbated without ceasing in an effort to bring on productive contractions, but nothing engaged her ginormous head in my pelvis.

Somewhere I’d read that nipple stimulation also could work to call up the appropriate labor hormones, so one fine day I pulled forth my spanky-new breast pump and tried to make sense of the pieces. Ah, I wish I had film from those moments. The lost look on my face and the delicacy with which I handled the parts spoke of someone who had nary a clue.

To think they were about to turn me loose with a child.

Good sense prevailed; eventually I assembled the contraption that for the next twelve months would relieve the ungodly pressure in my bosoms. In front of a mirror I hiked up my shirt, exposing the dark brown monstrosities that had overrun my usually pale pink nipples. I lined up the pump’s cups, hit the button, and then was totally weirded out.

Why? Because it felt good. Pumping felt mighty fine, in an intense sort of way, and I couldn’t help but think that my child’s hungry mouth would feel equally good.

I put away my pump. I decided there was really no rush.

Over the next several days I turned over and over in my mind how to make the transition from Decorative Boobs to Food-Source Boobs. I was young; the best I could come up with before the child screamed forth into existence was this: While she needed them, my breasts would cease to be fun. They would only be functional.

I maintained this stance for the next full year, as my stubborn child utterly rejected the bottle. She’s no fool. She knew from whence the good stuff come, and it most certainly was not from plastic.

For that entire time my breasts were off-limits to my husband and even to myself. I told myself that I didn’t want the mess and bother of leaky milk, but really I didn’t want to cross the line between useful and pleasurable.

This seems like such a pity now, and I wish I’d done better. I wish I’d figured out how my body parts could be both beautiful and functional. I’m not sure that motherhood itself taught me that, but it certainly helped.

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