of course motherhood changed my life, not only personally but socially as well. you see, not so long ago i was queen bee.

i know it was a self-proclaimed title, but i was the only girl in an all-boy group of friends. i was the gwen stefani of our troup, minus the pink hair and musical instruments. for almost ten years, their girlfriends came and went (mostly went) but i was continually the belle of the ball. there’s always been some relish in this role as “the” girl. when we all went out, i was the wardrobe consultant; i got shotgun; they bought me drinks; when they checked out girls, my feedback was consulted (usually an “eww. what a skank” was the reply. but what else could they expect?). i was part of the group, one of the boys.

i was privy to the single male’s perspective on life, love, women, politics, music, and fashion. believe me, we weren’t solving the world’s problems while bellied up to the bar scoping out the beautiful babies, but there is something distinctly different in talking with a group of guys than a group of girls. and it was that difference that i loved. i didn’t have to talk about kids or my marriage or anything serious, i could just hang. there’s something to be said of that comfortable world of male conversation.

but before i wax too fondly on the all-males, all-the-time social circle, it did get lonely. being the only girl makes you THE FEMALE REPRESENTATIVE of all females on the planet, and that, my friends, is no easy mantle. trying to explain why females act the way they do is no easy task. and when i did want to talk about kids or marriage, was i going to cut into their conversation about the girl with the really big boobs across the room so that we could discuss our “feelings”? hmmm, probably not. that would have to wait for phone calls to my sister or mom.

and then it finally happened. the end was nigh. about eleven months ago, i got pregnant. at first, going out was no problem; they now had a built-in sober driver. lucky me. but soon, going to smoky bars with a noticeable bun in the oven is no longer a desirable activity. and besides, it’s not like there are “going out to the bars” maternity outfits (at least i hope not) and it is weird being the obviously pregnant person in a bar. people tend to stare. and not in that “hey, you’re hot” way.

so that chapter in my life was beginning to come to a close. my weekends of going out with the boys was now going to be lunch dates instead of smoky concerts and bar hopping. and what of my queen bee status? without a queen, what would become of my boys? who knows what lows would befall them without a strong female to guide them?

then it finally happened. one of them got a girlfriend and my days as the female center of the boy universe were over, sniff, sniff. and i was a little sad; these were my boys and now i would have to share.

but it was providential timing, a rightful end of an era. i gladly pass off my crown (and shotgun rights) to the new girl. she’s got a great group of guys to rule over and i know she’s up for the task; she’s already broken one in and the rest will follow, mwah, ha, ha.

enjoy your role as i did and every once in awhile, humor me when i call shotgun.

lately i’ve been having dreams. lots of dreams. every night, one or two vivid adventures of weirdness. last night was no different. sort of.

in my dream i had six nipples. six. and they were on this removable layer of skin, you know, so i could take them on and off at will. at one point in my dream i had them off and was a little freaked out at their appearance. i know, i know, big surprise. i kept trying, in my dream, to make them go back to two, shoving them together to no avail. total weirdness.

i definitely think this dream points to two issues. one, breastfeeding and self-image. breastfeeding ella has been really awesome and there’s nothing that can bring us any closer, literally. but i guess i’m feeling a little mammalian these days.

it’s funny how people do react to me breastfeeding. with friends, the boys will do anything not to make eye-contact while i’m feeding ella. it’s such a natural act, but most males seem uncomfortable by it. and believe me, i’m not whipping out my breast for all to see. i’m discreetly shielded by a blanket, as is baby. but this still is seems a little disconcerting to most male humans.

i’m mostly at ease with it these days. i don’t go out of my way to feed her in front of others. i’d rather be alone and do it. mostly because she makes these embarrassing slurping sounds then belches loudly when she’s done. i’m completely joking about that, by the way. but if it is just the two of us, it is less stressful and i don’t have to worry about other people and can solely concentrate on her.

it is a little weird being a food source, don’t get me wrong. i guess that’s the other part of my dream. being reduced to an udder is not a pretty thing so getting used to that aspect takes some adjusting. but when it’s time to feed her, she calms right down, puts her little hand on my chest and her eyes get drowsy. it’s soooo cute. of course, i could do without the after-burping spit-fest that my shirt becomes.

so if you do see me breastfeeding, try not to be too squemish. i promise not to flash my detachable udders.