One of the many truths about babies is that they have to eat every day.

One of the many truths about mothers is that they provide the food that babies eat every day. From their boobs.

And as weird as that second fact is on paper, it is even weirder in real life. Weird and sorta wonderful at the same time.

Now let me preface all of this by saying that I’m not one of these women who really loves the magical art of breastfeeding. I breastfeed because my baby is hungry and this is the best and cheapest foodsource available to her.It is nutritionally complete and it burns like 500 calories a day for me. And it’s free. Those, as selfish and superficial as they are,  are the only reasons. It is not a convenient thing. Or glamorous. Or without horrible problems, which I learned this week.

Yes. That’s right, internet world, I had a boob disease.

The medical term for this awesomeness is mastitis. The dictionary describes it as thus:

Super. It always makes me feel really good when they mention cows in the same definition as a problem I have. Very uplifting.

What that crummy definition didn’t tell you is that mastitis causes fever and flu-like symptoms. Like 103 degree fever and a headache that makes you want to punch a puppy in the face. I honestly don’t know if I have ever been more sick in my whole life. I couldn’t get out of bed. My in-laws had to come up from Montgomery to take care of Eloise. I stayed in the bed for three whole days. All because of a boob infection. I’m better now, thankfully, and my life can continue with business as usual, but I can’t help but wonder how such destruction can be caused by something that is so celebrated by mankind.

Why is it that these body parts have had such a strange hold over my life? In junior high school, I wanted some. In high school, I would fight with my mom about covering them up enough. Now I use them as an all-you-can-eat milk buffet for my baby. I’ve gone from slim pickings to the Piccadilly. And until my doctor put me on a heavy dose of antibiotics, the Piccadilly had to be shut down due to contamination. I know. It’s gross. I probably shouldn’t even be talking about it. But I have to ask: is there ever a time when these things are supposed to be fun?

Hollywood apparently thinks so. They portray them as having some kind of magical power. It’s an old story: Woman who is otherwise frumpy and unlikable gets a haircut, a push up bra and a low cut shirt from a gay friend in a tailored suit and BAM- all of a sudden she is editor of the magazine and has the before-now-unapproachable Romeo asking her out. And it isn’t because Romeo all of a sudden noticed her haircut or editorial position. Guys don’t really notice haircuts or job titles, as a rule. Sorry. It’s because under all of that frump was a 34D just waiting to be unleashed. And now that they are large and in charge, so is the formerly frumpy woman who owns them. She gets what she wants.

What if cows were as fascinated with their udders as we are with ours? Teenage cows would stick clumps of dirt and grass to themselves to make their udders look bigger. Women cows would prance around the field with theirs flopping around, tying string to them in order to  “lift and separate”. Bulls would celebrate their bachelor parties with giant udder shaped cakes. Cow TV would feature bovine after bovine with no acting or mooing talent whatsoever but screenfulls of udders. Bull sporting events would not air without at least three shots of beautiful cows with large udders in sparkly suits per quarter-usually selling beer. All the old cows complain how they can now kick their udders or tuck them into their shorts or how they drag the ground, and in their prime, the bulls would come from far and wide to catch a glimpse of their udders in a certain (usually red) outfit. I could go on and on. You get the point.

When did the first food source of all human babies become an object of desire? Whose idea was that? I am sure it was a man, and I am sure that man had never seen a woman breastfeed, much less a woman with mastitis. If he had, he would apologize for placing so much emphasis body parts that can wreak that much havoc on their owners. When he thought of “hot mama” I am sure the 103 degree fever I had was not what he had in mind.

This is just another sacrifice in a long list that I will make on Eloise’s behalf. I’ve accepted my fate: instead of bustiers- nursing bras; instead of a low cut top- a hooter hider; and instead of feeding male desire- feeding my daughter. And I’m okay with that. Boobs aren’t that great anyway. But if you happen to see a bunch of bulls gathered around an udder shaped cake, you’ll know what they’re up to.