Rejection begins with an R

My baby hates my boobs.

It hasn’t always been this way. No, she used to love them. Like, really love them. She was attached to my nipples like a limpet to a rock, at least every two hours. She woke every few hours in the night and literally stuffed my boob in her mouth. She just couldn’t get enough of me. And I whinged. I bellyached and whined and moaned. If only she’d take a bottle, then we could have a night out, I’ll never be able to leave her!

But now she hasn’t the slightest bit of interest in them. Now that real food’s on the table, she’s happy for a quick munch from me first thing in the morning and last thing before bed. But that’s all. And I can’t help but feel a little rejected.

Don’t get me wrong, I am pleased. It means she’s actually worked out proper food can fill her up and is now (fingers crossed) sleeping longer at night. But I’ve always been a “grass is greener” sort of girl and I just can’t help thinking…oh, right, that’s it then.

I did try to reignite the flame, so to speak. I waggled my nipple around for a good ten minutes at one point but ended up poking her in the eye with it. I’ve now grown sick of the withering looks she gives me, as if to say don’t come near me with those things. So I’ve stopped trying.

I’m trying not to take it personally, but it’s hard. For the last eight months, she’s the only one who’s shown any interest in them. The (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine won’t go near them for fear of being squirted in the eye with milk. And they’ve never been the type of boobs to attract attention in the first place (apart from when I flashed to the entire village but that was a one-off). So I suppose the boobs were enjoying their time in the limelight while it lasted.

Oh well. At least Arthur still loves me. In fact, he loves me “more than peas and doors” apparently. There you go, I may have rubbish boobs but I’m still better than a small vegetable. Not brocolli though. Nothing beats the brocolli.