more matter | less art

Okay. I haven’t had a “nightmare” in a very long time, but the dream I had the other night was about as close as you can come without heading into the Nightmare on Elm Street category.

Asher was a newborn. I don’t remember lots of details about what he looked like, but then again, babies still look pretty much the same to me. Anyway, not the point. The point was that he was wailing his little head off and I knew he had to eat. We were at my grandmother’s, though, and I didn’t want to whip my booby out in front of everyone, so I went upstairs.

Apparently this was my first attempt at breastfeeding, because I simply COULD NOT DO IT. I was trying to maneuver Asher and maneuver myself and doing all sorts of stuff with different angles, but he couldn’t, er, latch on, so he kept crying his little heart out. Then I started crying because I am at this point officially the worst mother ever. Well, except for mothers who leave their babies in trash cans and stuff. I’m the worst mother that gives a damn ever.

AND THEN, as if this is not bad enough, my grandmother swings open the upstairs door and is staring at me in all of my exposed glory, and she tells me I’m doing it wrong. I am now humiliated on two fronts: I cannot feed my own baby, and my grandmother saw my naked chest (I’m modest about these things).

She takes Asher and lays him on the ground on his back, and then she tells me that I’m supposed to get on my knees and, like, lean over him. All the while I’m thinking, “surely this isn’t right.”

That’s when I woke up.

You know you’re in a different place in life when this is the crap your dreams are made of. Oy.