A Breast Breastfeeding Story

Like all good moms, I have a breast breastfeeding story.

I recently joined the Cre8buzz social network and I know now I made the right decision. My friend TZT at Tiny Mantras told me that a mom was kicked off of FaceBook for posting a photo of her breastfeeding her baby. Apparently an army of breastfeeding moms fled to Cre8buzz where they have a strict policy of not discriminating against Breastfeeders.

So for Flashback Friday, here is my story.

After my third child turned three, I desperately needed to get out of the house decided to start on their college fund by getting a job.

I got an interview with a woman named Trish. It was for one of those on-hold phone message companies that tell you about the overuse of antibiotics while you’re waiting to beg the doctor for some.

I knew I could write those messages. No problem. What I was more concerned with was making a good impression.

I reviewed my closet: jeans, jeans and more jeans. There was no faking a business look, so I tried to make the most of “artsy.” I grabbed a blue jean jumper and augmented “the look” with heavy silver jewelry -- gold says conservative.

Once in the parking lot, I surveyed my “look.” My hair, still wet, resembled Iggy Pop’s. My silver earrings were the size of matchbooks. But I bet Trish knows "cool" when she sees it.

Walking into the office, I was confronted with my biggest decision: glasses on or off? On, the trendy dark frames made me look like I had one continuous thick eyebrow. Off, I looked like the tired SAHM that I was.

I went for the long eyebrow.

Immediately I noticed the reception area was more conservative than I would have thought. Gray carpet, black chairs, and ceramic vases with elaborate floral arrangements filled the room. Then a guy in blue jeans walked by eating a banana split. I sighed with relief; it’s a casual place after all.

While I waited for my interview time, I went over my checklist: sit up straight, keep hands on the table, don’t gab about your personal life, especially the kids.

Finally a woman in a tailored suit and heels extends her arm. “Hello, I’m Trish,” she said, gold jewelry sparkling from ears, arms and fingers.

As we made our way to her office, I noticed everyone was wearing suits and gold jewelry. Mr. Blue Jeans was nowhere in sight. We sat at a long table and Trish told me about the job. She seemed to eye my jumper and silver jewelry. Me, I was checking out her eyebrows.

Writing features is different than straight news, she said, face stern. Do you have any experience writing features?

Gulp.

Do you have any experience writing straight copy?

Gulp.

You do have a degree in journalism, don’t you?

Gulp.

Can you use a Mac?

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

Do you have any questions about our company?

Questions? Oh yeah, it’s good to have questions.

Silence.

I felt like a kid in the principal’s office.

In the event we could use you, her sternness turned to bitchiness, are your hours flexible?

More silence.

Flexible? Well, I’ve two kids in school full time. Thank God. I mean...and my little one goes to Child's Day Out now. I finally weaned him from my breast after 12 months….

Oh, I breastfed my children, too, she offered, face fifty degrees friendlier.

Trish? Who would have thought?

Trish went on to tell me the value of prolonged breastfeeding, how difficult it was for relatives to accept, and how to do it discreetly in public places (she once got escorted out of an art museum for nursing behind Rodin statue). Then Trish offered me the job.

A job. Yes. Can you believe it?

I got the job.

Now I’d heard of women getting jobs because of their breasts, but you know, I never thought it would happen to me!



I do not have, not would I ever post a photo of myself breastfeeding. So I'm using former Governor's Spitzer's mistress again. Clearly, she won't get kicked off of FaceBook.

Please click Humor-blogs.com so my ratings go up, so I can get that book deal I need to pay off the 23% interest on my credit cards so I can put my kids through the community college of their choice.