Breasting change

I have started breastfeeding again which is really quite weird because I thought I had finished. I was heartless enough to stop so that I could get on a plane and go somewhere far away from suckling creatures. A seriously bad mother thing to do but I figured the baby, who was 16 months old had had a good innings on the breast front. The nocturnal feeding finished some time ago and I was down to just morning and bedtime anyway; I explained to her, suitcase by the door. "You won't even know they've gone", I said. "They'll write, OK?"Astonishingly though, I might have decided breastfeeding had finished but my breasts decided otherwise and promptly flipped back into operational mode as soon as I got home, despite the fact I had not fed the baby for 10 days. I am rather impressed at their determination to maintain functionality. It was really quite a Stalinist mother of the nation thing for them to do. They appear to have a mind of their own. I am wondering whether they will want to take charge of the television remote control on an evening.

I am a big fan of breastfeeding. I am about as far as you can get from statuesque and if I had not breastfed my babies, I would never have known the charm of life as a woman with big breasts, and, it means you can eat more. Apparently it is quite good for the babies too. A friend told me recently she ended up with two differently sized breasts courtesy of breastfeeding. Apparently she used to let her babies do most of their feeding from one particular breast. She used her free arm to make tea, hoover and juggle, or some such other one-handed activity. She told me this and I laughed at her and her lopsided breasts. Since I am profoundly jet lagged and had little else to do last night with a sleeping husband by my side, I decided to see whether breastfeeding has had a similar effect on me. I did this very carefully - firstly, because I think you should be scrupulous in matters scientific and secondly, I did not want my husband asking me what on earth I was doing, or worse, whether he could help. With the right hand, I took the appropriate handfuls and then cross-checked my findings with the left hand. I scooped and weighed thoughtfully. Do you know, I think they are different. How about that? You do not get told that in the breast is best glossy little leaflet you carry away from the maternity ward. That your breasts are going to be different sizes from here on in and may want to watch Coronation Street on a Monday.

"Mama? Mama?"

I was thrown out of the house last night - well maybe, not so much thrown as eased out gently with a flashlight and a duvet and told to sleep next door. My husband, let's call him TW, has had enough of the baby's nocturnal breastfeeding. Since we are pushed for space and there is nowhere else for her to go, the baby's cot is in our room. Unlike my husband, the baby rather likes her nightly routine and, in that halfway state between sleep and wakefulness, I have been unable to resist her plaintive bleatings of "Mama? Mama?" in the cold darkness. She starts up and I stumble out of bed, pluck her from the cot and sink back into the bedding with my little victorious suckling. As she sees it, I'm lying there and it's not like I'm doing anything else. But TW is right, it has gone on long enough. She's nearly 15 months old and God knows, I could do with a night's sleep. The mini-bar is officially closed.