The Womanly Art of
Sometimes doing what needs to be done is enough
Reader's Advisory: This column contains a frank tribute to the breast, the hardest-working body part in show business.
Before we get down to the business of explaining midyear widowhood, you need to know this about me: I am no poster child for breast-feeding. My introduction to nursing was like induction into a religious cult. You know: the disrupted sleep, the repetitive tasks, the litany of trite homilies intended to numb the mind and paralyze the spirit into compliance. "Breast-feeding can be uncomfortable at first," the books said. Uh, yeah. Bruised, battered, and appalled to discover that new babies nurse every couple of hours around the clock, I spent the first six weeks of Mona's life alternately crying, berating my husband, and soaking my nipples in basins of salt water.
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