I'm Still Missin' Mama

~ A Life Without Breastfeeding ~

In Bernardo Bertolucci’s “The Last Emperor,” Pu Yi, the crown prince to the Dragon Throne, was shown daintily suckling the lush, ambrosial breast of his toothsome nursemaid -- at an age when most young whippersnappers are playing freshman football. Oh my, how hungrily I’ve watched that Raphaelite scene over the years, one hand desperately thumb-working the tiny buttons of the remote control (Motherfucker! I’m back at the main menu again!), one hand holding the rubbery nipple of a half-filled water balloon to my greedy, pulling mouth, and one hand … well, let’s not talk about that. You see, I was not so fortunate as that young, pampered prince. No, I had a harsher, lonelier, mid-twentieth century destiny.

Right from the get go, still red, wet and wrinkled, I got no special treatment in the Panky household. Fried eggs, sausage patties, biscuits with gravy, grits, the occasional fried pork chop were good enough for everyone else; they were good enough for me. Breast milk simply wasn't an option: not on the menu, it wasn't served in these parts, not in these modern times. “Like it or lump it,” said Mother, as she tipped and scraped the plate into the bassinet, a meal-time endearment I would hear every day for the next seventeen years. Oh sure, I kicked up a ruckus for the first few weeks, squalling, shrieking, weight falling to less than two pounds, and Pop, a cautious and mild-mannered soul, expressed some legal concerns. But Mom just stood at the sink, smoking a Salem Menthol ("you can take Salem out of the country but ... you can't take the country out of Salem!"), drinking her morning Manhattan, and staring out the window at the Interstate whooshing by a dozen feet away, “He’ll eat when he’s hungry enough.”

And sure enough, by the third month of life, I was wolfing down sloppy joes and foot-longs like a ferret pup in a garbage can. Though my torso never did catch up with my head size.

All right, so Mom’s forthright solipsism cost me my Mensa membership, an identifiable chin, and the ability to breathe through my nose. In my book, that’s a negligible price to pay for a feral will to live, an undiscriminating palate (I always clean my plate) and a fierce, bottomless delight in grande lattés. Not to mention the mystical relationship I enjoy with the most beautiful water balloon in the world! Sweetheart, stand up so everyone can see you. Ain’t she gorgeous, folks? Yep, next week will be our thirtieth! Thank you, thank you very much.

Frankly, and perhaps more to the point, given the choice, I probably wouldn’t have breast fed myself either, even if it had been possible. (It’s not; I nearly dislocated my neck.) I recently browsed the web in an attempt to put myself in Mom’s brassiere, to get a sense of the difficult, decision-making process she went through those 51 years ago. Within minutes, I sat rigid and thrumming with horror and revulsion … and, as always, I’d like for you to join me. Here’s an advertisement from the La Leche League website:

Whoa! Spooky! The photo displayed more tubes, hoses, gaskets, motors, suction cups, tongs, clips and other unidentifiable hardware than a build-it-yourself ocean-drilling oil rig. And Blue Ice??? I have an auxiliary circle of acquaintances whose entire social life revolves around this lewd, joke-store gimcrack, namely, a blue ice-cube mold in the shape of a certain erect, party-sized, sexual organ. Birthdays, weddings, bachelor and bachelorette parties, baby showers: this crude vulgarity is certain to pop up in the gift pile, drop out of the pińata or loll obscenely within the Easter egg basket – to hysterical hoots of laughter. Surprise! Oh no! People weep, choke, bend over, and pound each other’s backs. Put that in your cocktail, Suzy! Hoo-wee! It doesn’t get any better than this, eh bro! Just too damn funny!

Honestly, I’m disappointed in La Leche League: this sacred time in a young woman’s life is hardly the occasion for rude, low brow levity.

However, I did send away for the video.

Another issue also deserves consideration: as Mother pointed out to me at the age of four or five: “Henry, you were born old.” Sadly, this rings true: there was never anything of the blithely innocent, gurgling weanling about me. And what young Madonna wants to gaze down upon a toothless, wizened, hard-eyed geezer at her paps? A cranky, pint-sized Grandpa McCoy, clamped to her chest like a vampire bat. No, better to put it in its basket or tub, spatula in some left-over bubble n’ squeak, and shut the lid, fast.

And last but not least, maybe she didn’t want her bosom hanging down to her waist. I can empathize with that, because that’s why I left my third wife for someone younger.

Now, I’m not going to pigeon-hole myself by saying that I’m more of a “tits man” than an “ass man” or, for that matter, even a “yoni man” – though if a choice has to be made, I’m definitely going with the yoni -- oh Sweet Saviour yes, no question about it, that's simple biological imperative. Of course, a nice personality, a sense of humor, a good job and a "real purty" mouth are likewise commendable feminine attributes. Here’s a metaphor that might help: if the female figure was, for example, a plump, juicy roast chicken or a golden, savory, Butterball turkey, I’d say, sure, I like breast meat – if it’s not too dry – but I also relish the dark, tender thighs, the chewy, sinewy drumsticks, the sluttish invitation of the wishbone, not to mention hot buffalo wings, McNuggets, chicken-fried steak and even the rich, shadowy piquancy of forbidden giblets.

I’m quite partial to stuffing as well, if the recipe hasn’t been fucked up with couscous, water chestnuts, prunes, lychee nuts, smoked oysters or other unholy and un-American abominations.

The Good Book says, “to everything there is a season.” Summer, for example, is an excellent season for knockers – sarongs, swim suits, sports bras, topless beaches, wet t-shirt contests, not to mention that saucy tie-up-the-shirt-right-below-the-sternum arrangement I first saw in “South Pacific.” Hallelujah! Generous is the Lord to his servant Job! On the other hand, when that big old harvest moon rises up in the sky, I find myself peckish for firm, round, meaty bottoms … could be all those pumpkins ripening in the fields. May is a wondrous time for pouty belly-buttons! And so forth and so on: seasons, like the Good Book said, they go round and round.

But I cannot and will not deny that the absence of breastfeeding – not to mention, even seeing, licking, nuzzling, sucking, nibbling or respectfully having intercourse with a pair of living, breathing, jiggling bosoms until my junior year in high school – didn’t hone my appetite to a fine, desperate edge that’s never dulled in all the years since.

And, you know, mon ami – in our debased culture of inane stunts and sordid shenanigans; of comic book superheroes and serial killers; of flatulent ennui, hope abandoned, and palates jaded beyond recall – that’s no small thing.

Uh uh, no sir, that’s something pure and good and holy to hold onto … with both hands.

And perhaps even brumsky*.

* Brumsky (from the Sanskrit brum: "breath" and/or "things that hoot" + the Slavic msky: "yum-yum very happy"): 'the act of putting one's head between a woman's breasts, mouth lightly upon the sternum and making a blowing/flubbering exhalation therein; sometimes enhanced by squishing both bosoms gently inward against the cheekbones of the flubberer.' Sample usage: "Whenever the world became too grim, the Count of la Fere would undo Madame's stays and find solace in performing brumsky...huffing and puffing within the soft, warm, enveloping sandwich of her womanly fulsomeness for hours on end." Alexander Dumas, "The Return of Athos"

By Henry E. Panky
"Are you my mother?" asked the baby bird