Riona O Connor - The Unnatural Woman

Actor. Singer. Mother. Songwriter. Vlogger. Blogger. Eater. Pop over to to view more blogs by Riona.

Wednesday, 17 February 2016

A Love Letter To My Breasts

When we started this love affair you left me exhausted, spent, ravished and ravaged.  Oh you made me sweat and pant, blush and glow.  I long for those endless days we spent on the couch, in bed, wrapped in blankets on the floor, ensconced in bliss and the promise of what was to come.  

As our courtship continued I felt inspired by you. You gave me an energy, a confidence, a sultry determination to achieve, to succeed, to flourish.  Because of you I ignored the swollen limbs, the sciatica, the wobble.  Because of you I felt invincible.  

When baba arrived, you helped me through some of the hardest times in my life.  When I thought I couldn’t get through another sleepless night, you were there for me. When I thought I couldn’t spend another second listening to the incessant whining you reminded me of the love. When I thought I couldn’t possibly do another day, another week of the same routine, you reminded me that I could, and that I could do it better than last week. You inspired me to thrive, driving me onwards and giving me strength.  

And now I hear that you’re thinking of leaving me? You say that one day I might not need you anymore, that I’ll move on. Well, I might have to change one day but I don’t want to lose you. What if I get enveloped by sadness when you leave? What if I’m so lonely without you that I forget how to get through a day? What if all inspiration leaves with you and I tell myself that ‘all’ I am is a mother, and without you I’ll tell myself that that isn’t enough and I’ll believe it.

And so, hormones, I’m clinging to you a little longer. Our sweet romance continues. My plan to breastfeed for as long as I can now has another weightier, darker logic. It’s not only
because I really love it, because it makes me feel so close to my baba, because the guidelines tell me I should, but also because when I stop, hormones, you stop too. Sweet Prolactin, dear wonderful Oxytocin, if part of our last few months together could somehow give me the vision to manufacture you in my garden so that when you leave I can then snort you off my husbands arse whenever I so choose, then I wish for that.