Full Tit Shot
Claudia
I barely makeit out of Paul’s apartment before Savannah starts fussing, little face scrunching, mouth rooting like she has not eaten in months, years. My chest responds instantly because my body is now dramatic like that, and now my boobs ache as if someone filled them with lava.
If I do not get her latched soon, we are entering Niagara Falls territory.
I stop in the hallway, close my eyes, and breathe. Inhale sanity, exhale panic.
“If you find breastfeeding in public offensive, please look away,” I mutter, already maneuvering my shirt and unsnapping my nursing bra one-handed like a mom-gician. “I am feeding a child, not starring in a scandal.”
Deacon’s voice is low and way too amused, “Are we talking full tit shot or…”
“Don’t be such a man.”
“Respectfully. I am just trying to manage expectations.”
Savannah latches, tiny sigh, little hand resting on my chest like she owns it. I swear, being a human buffet is humbling, heroic, and humiliating all at once.
I tuck the loose corner of her swaddle up, cover myself in one smooth motion, and lean against the wall. Layers are a superpower. Nursing tank, loose tee, light flannel that doubles as a baby privacy tent. Breastfeeding level: certified ninja. No one sees a thing unless I allow it.
“See.” I round the corner. “No National Geographic moment. You are safe.”
His eyes soften a little, all the teasing falling away. “You are good at this.”
“I’ve become good at taking orders,” I correct him. “My boobs run the operation. Savannah’s the boss. I am just the employee.”
He smirks. “And I thought hockey players had grit.”
Savannah’s sucking slows, her whole body relaxing as she fills up. My shoulders drop, the ache fading, milk hormones doing their weird Mother Earth thing.
“We’re staying down here, or should I carry the two of you up?”
I walk past him, “I can manage.”
“No doubt.”
We take the four flights slowly because multitasking is one thing I may be good at, but Savannah likes her mealtime quiet.
By the time we reach the top, Savannah finishes one side, heavy-eyed and doing that adorable goldfish-mouth thing, so I shift her up to burp.
Deacon hovers, as if he wants to help but also as if he is scared. So not sexy. Not that I am trying to be, but it feels so good to be looked at like he looks at me.
He clears his throat. “So… how do you know when to switch sides. Is there like… a timer.”
“Actually, research says… and yes, I mean legitimate science, not mom-fluencers who drink iced coffee, while explaining the benefits to the child. Research says she needs around ten minutes a side right now.”
He nods, very serious. “So, there’s data.”
“Oh, tons,” I say. “Milk production is a whole science. There is foremilk, hindmilk, let-down reflex, supply-demand regulation, latch quality…”
His eyes widen like I am giving a TED talk titledBoobs: The Truth You Didn’t Learn In Health Class.
“Based on the pediatric guidelines,” I continue after opening the door. “I should offer both sides per session to ensure adequate caloric intake and maintain supply for projected feeding intervals.”
He blinks. “I have never felt more ignorant in my life.”
I pat Savannah’s back. “It’s hard to hear when they are so sexualized. Breastfeeding basically makes us biological factories, nutritionists, and Amazon Prime. One-hour delivery. Sometimes thirty minutes. No truck required.”
