Prologue:

Dinner Television ‘Parent Panel’

Give baldy the tit:

Our little n00b is 20 months old now (140 months in dog years) and he gets milk from the source. He and his mother love the time they share together, it is really quite calming and wonderful.

As a side note, I am slowly learning that ideas on breastfeeding are all over the board. They are as follows…

Some see it as the most natural way to provide sustenance to their spawn, while some can’t breastfeed (for various medical reasons) and so bottled milk is the only option. Then there are those who think it should discontinue at a specific age while others are confused and made uncomfortable by it. Before I get to my point, the World Health Organization recommends that one should breastfeed a child up to 2 years minimum. After that, it’s up to the mother and the child.

I think the reason a select few have trouble with breastfeeding is because (in Western society) we have over-sexualized the breast (and in saying that I know this information is nothing new). This baffles the living shit out of some. They don’t know what to do with themselves. It’s like seeing a snake deal cards. “You are doing it wrong,” their confuddled ID screams into their brain ears. It forces people to make a choice on a disillusioned basis while thinking, “Marketing combines with an infused puritanical mindset has told me that breasts are for sexy uses and when I see a woman publicly nurture her child I’m forced to make a proclamation based on a state of confusion. What in the subliminally suggested world of popular misconception am I supposed to do? I’m vexed and pushy because of a disjointed subconscious.”

Here is (are?) the Coles’ notes of breastfeeding: The owner of the breast and the child involved are the only ones who get to put rules on this completely healthy relationship. There are suggestions from the populous as to what age is too old, but usually, common decency kicks in. I’ll end it with that.

No idea what I’m doing:

There has been a weird and wonderful offshoot to this UnDad thing: people ask me for advice. They ask about parenting, about writing, about style…I let them know that I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m making it up as I go. I’ve jumped off a cliff and am pretending I’m flying. Here are some excerpts of what ‘advice’ I’ve given…

“Being a parent has been done a sextillion times. Every parent fails. This isn’t new…you have to find the balance between the good this writing exercise does for (you) and what (you are) willing to blatantly admit and metaphorically express.”

“…don’t kid yourself, this is personal therapy. This isn’t getting back at anyone or revenge. If it is, you are doing it wrong. Focus on yourself and what you have learned. It moves you a peg beyond the bullshit of what happened to you and puts you in a place of healing. Nobody wants to hear you complain, everyone wants to hear you succeed.”

“No harm in referencing: it is the causality of your writing. But, move on as fast as you can in topical form. Example: ‘This horse I knew said my face looks like it was made of farts. Here are twenty things I learned from that’ (but way more literary and less listy)”.

“My (writing) doesn’t come from courage, it comes from….let’s just say I’m over ambitious. I want what I want and there is nothing wrong with that. And I’m a fuck-up. I mean I’m trying to own it. All the people I’ve hurt. All the bad decisions. All the times I failed. I own my humanity. I’m not embarrassed anymore (or trying to be less).”

“The kid is still alive, so I guess I’m doing something right.”