The boobs are back in business.
After recently deciding she’d had enough of my aggressive attempts to thrust a nipple in her mouth, Frog appears to have done a U-turn. The flame has been reignited, so to speak, and Boob and Frog are firmly back together.
Even though at the time I lamented the end of breastfeeding and looked back on those moments of closeness and bonding with bleary-eyed nostalgia, I was – to be quite honest – relieved. It meant I could get rid of the unflattering maternity bras and start wearing dresses again. I’m all about the dresses, me.
So here we are again. Back to tops and trousers. Maybe even a skirt with leggings if I’m feeling particularly trendy. But no dresses. Well, apart from the fabulous breastfeeding Dote Noir dress I bought for a wedding. But that’s pretty much it.
This time last year I was eagerly looking forward to getting my wardrobe back. I was excited about being able to wear whatever I wanted, without having to consider if it had an elasticated waist. I ordered my sister to return every item of clothing I had leant her during my pregnancy, and greeted each flatteringly cut dress like a long lost friend.
Yet here we are. A year on and I’m still not completely free to choose what I wear each morning. It’s like being three again and having someone else pick my clothes. Getting dressed each day is a military operation of tactical considerations. Can I easily get the boob out in this top without showing it to the entire world? Does this one pull up easily or will I end up sitting on it because it’s too long? (Clearly here I’m talking about the top, not the boob.) If I unbutton this shirt am I going to be stuck with one boob flapping in the breeze? Sheesh. It’s enough to give me a headache.
It’s an unpredictable business. Some days Frog’s fine until bedtime, in which case I lament a day’s loss of dress-wearing having opted for jeans and a T’shirt to be on the safe side. On other days, though, Frog is clamped to me for what feels like hours. And she always chooses those days when I’ve opted to risk it with a dress. It’s like she knows I’m not keen on flashing my pants as I attempt to hoik up my dress and get the boob out in a discreet manner.
Ten months old and already she’s mastered the art of embarrassing her mother. Or maybe she just hates dresses.