Breastfeeding and husband aren’t typically two words you see in the same sentence, but being a parent is full of surprises. Adult breastfeeding isn’t talked about much, but it’s not uncommon — especially when it comes to breast engorgement, clogged milk ducts, and mastitis.
My baby was not the only human being to enjoy my breast milk. I also shared it with her father.
No, I was not in an adult breastfeeding relationship (also known as ABR, adult nursing relationship or ANR), a fetish in which regular breastfeeding is part of an adult relationship. I’m not into that. But yes, I did beg my husband to please, please drink my breast milk!
This is how it went down
I had just returned from a long day at work, away from my baby, and my breasts were engorged. They looked and felt like rocks. The skin on my nipples was so taut that I knew my baby was never going to be able to latch onto them. It was painful as hell. I felt like my boobs might explode from the milk buildup.
I searched for remedies on the internet. I applied moist heat, then a cold compress to reduce the swelling. I tried massaging them. I applied cabbage leaves.
I even tried using a horrible, cheap, manual breast pump that resembled an oversize syringe. Nothing worked.
In the meantime, my baby was a hungry, crying, and pissed off. Usually that’s enough for a mom’s breasts to leak. But not mine. Mine were beyond the ability to do that.
The sound of my baby wailing was so stressful that I felt like I was going to snap if I couldn’t soothe her, and breastfeeding was not an option. I held my baby to my chest in desperation, propped up on my bed.
The babysitter had already left, and I soon heard a different set of steps headed toward my bedroom. By the time my husband walked in from work, I didn’t know which one of us was crying louder, the baby or me.
As soon as I saw him, I realized he may be my only salvation at that moment. I had what I thought was a brilliant idea! That’s when I said it: “I need you to drink my breast milk!”
He opened his eyes wide and arched his eyebrows. I could tell he didn’t know whether I was joking or being serious.
“What’s going on?” he asked
First, I gave him hell for not letting me get the fancy breast pump I wanted. And then I explained why his sucking on my breasts was the only way to relieve the pressure and the pain.
“OK!” he said with an excited smile. (Men, I tell you ….) “Fine, what do I do?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves.
That’s how, with my baby still in my arms, I wound up breastfeeding my husband. I had him lie on the bed and gently suck on one breast and then the other, until the milk started flowing.
At first, he swallowed it. “It’s sweet!” he said in surprise.
At one point, he got up to get a container into which he spat the milk out.
“It’s making me feel full!”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry! (No worries, we did not feed that milk to the baby! We tossed it out.)
When both my breasts were once again malleable, the milk was free-flowing, and my nipples were once again in a shape that was accessible to my baby, it was her turn. I washed both my breasts, and then snuggled up with my little one to feed her and put her to sleep.
As the little one nodded off in a milk stupor, I mouthed “Thank you!” to her dad. Now you can bet that when I had my next baby, I got a fancy breast pump. I didn’t want to ever have to go through that hellish engorgement again. I mean, what if next time he wasn’t home to give me a hand?
