Addicted
I was 13 when I first started smoking cigarettes. I remember my 8th grade friend, Natalie, teaching me how to inhale. "Like this," she would say, while modeling a drag. "You've got to hold it inside, and then exhale." As I tried it, I coughed horribly, but I continued to try and inhale until I eventually became a true cigarette addict. At first I hated cigarettes, and in the end I needed them.
Quentin Hides in Hat
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My one month old son, Quentin, has become an addict. Quentin breastfeeds as if he is inhaling.
At the hospital where I gave birth, I received lots of assistance and training about how to breastfeed. The nurses kept asking me, "Is Quentin latching on?" I did not understand what they meant. "He can't just have your nipple in his mouth," they would explain, "but he must really latch onto it widely and suck tightly to get the milk to flow out to him."
Now I know the latch.
I know how to turn him on to it. I am the pimp to my own whore. I try to coax and stimulate my baby into latching on tight to my breast. And then my breast, the whore in me, just works. I produce, produce, produce day and night, for the exchange of pounds on my little baby boy.
After Quentin has gotten his fix, he latches off, puts the pipe down, and begins to pass out from his breast milk high. His face falls into a romantic and sleepy mood. He surrenders all control of his gestures. His arms fall completely to his sides.
Unlike Bill Clinton, my baby cannot use the excuse that he did not inhale. You can see the milk dripping from his little lips.
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