Udderly Unbelievable

My son has two major states of being. Hungry, and extreme fucking hunger. I know he is merely hungry when, and only when he isn’t in extreme fucking hunger mode. When he sleeps, hungry. When he smiles or coos, hungry. When he grunts like a pot bellied pig, hungry. I know that he’s always hungry, because he has never once turned down the opportunity to hang from my wife’s chest by his lips. No matter what the circumstances, to my wife’s chagrin, the milk sacks always make things better. I’ve seen the little animal eat for forty-five minutes, puke and then go back to eating. At this rate, I am going to have to convert my basement into a vomitorium. Even my dog has limits. At five weeks old, his appetite/weight ratio is comparable to a teenaged boy on pot. It is absolutely endless.

This leaves state of being number two, extreme fucking hunger. Extreme fucking hunger sets in sometime between a microsecond to a nanosecond after he realizes that the smell of his mother/slave is not within sucking distance. When he enters extreme fucking hunger mode, beware. By “beware”, I mean grab your nuts and pray. You’re about to get slammed worse than a drunk cliff diver. During this time, your only solace is when his blood curdling screams turn into the super-sonic pierce that makes the dog leave the room. At this point you don’t know if you want him to catch his breath or just pass out from an oxygen deficiency.

When I started out with fatherhood, I thought there were only about five different baby needs; food, shit, piss, burp, pacify. Like so many other thing in my life, I was sadly mistaken. Now I understand that all his needs can be satisfied with tits; similar to his father, yet dramatically different in many ways. Proud as I am that my son and I share a love for woman’s breasts, the reality is quite concerning. You see, in less than two months my wife goes back to work. In an effort to give my son the chance to be raised by his parents rather than a west indian pedophile, I have agreed be Mr. Mom on Wednesdays and Fridays, and on Tuesday mornings. This leaves me with a dilemma. I have a child who would sooner turn to cannibalism then wait patiently for his next meal, and I don’t have breasts; not useful ones anyway.

We decided to breast feed for all of the positive benefits, which for some reason escape me now. I know breast feeding is a wonderful way to bond, but at this point, a fishing trip sounds so much more accommodating. Nevertheless, we are no quitters. So, in an effort to solve this predicament, we invested in a $300 breast pump. This medieval form of torture consists of two large suction cups connecting to bottles held to the aureolas by the suction of little tubes that run to a device that looks like a mini car battery. My first perverted thought was that this would make an interesting accessory to prosthetic molding of Jenna Jameson’s face, but then I saw it in action and my member recoiled in horror.

When the pump starts, it pulls on the nipple with a force that completely contorts the shape into what looks like a long drawn out cow udder. This human tit milking process is what we call technology. The bottles capture the milk and, viola, mother’s milk we can freeze into mom pops, so a second salary can go towards college rather than formula. Brilliant!...or is it? Unfortunately, here is my not-so-cheery prediction. Mom goes back to work, pumps in the morning, pumps at 10am, pumps at noon, pumps at 2pm, pumps at 4pm...and get absolutely nothing fucking done. After a few weeks of creating momsicles, her boss realizes that her work is suffering, and guess what? FORMULA. We waste hundreds of dollars on the stupid pump, that I could have made myself in the basement with my vacuum, a funnel and an iced-tea pitcher, and still have to buy formula for the next two years. Double screwed! Not to mention I am going to have to store this pump like so much other useless shit, including my deli slicer (used once), my creme brulee torch (used never) and my penis (used on occasion to make babies and change batteries in the smoke detector).

At the very least, my wife has been able to extract a few ounces of boob juice here and there, and although it is a grueling process, I did fall in love with my son all over again when I got to feed him for the first time. It really is magical to feed a newborn. He latched on in an instant, and his crying stopped. (Thank God) His eyes immediately locked with mine, almost to say “thank you.” To know that I was able to provide nourishment is really wonderful, even if it doesn’t come directly from my useless man boobs.