I’m not shy about breast feeding. But I’m not one of those women who casually whip out my milk maker during a dinner party, meeting onlookers’ uncomfortable expressions with an agitated “What?!? It’s just a breast! In France, this isn’t a big deal, prudes!!!”
I know women like this, and seeing random boobie over meat and potatoes makes me a little uncomfortable. But something happened the other day that made me downright squeamish about breastfeeding in public.
The scene: A friend’s garden way, way out in the country. Jake was helping some casual friends of ours harvest vegetables while I sat off to the side nursing June with a baby blanket modestly thrown over my shoulder for coverage. I will admit, these particular friends are of the redneck persuasion. There’s a lot of rednecks around here. I’m used to hanging out with rednecks. Rednecks are fine, salt-of-the-earth, sometimes wholesome people. But then a couple of their friends showed up who were downright pig-wrastlin’ hillbillies.
Tip-off #1: This husband and wife duo drove their self-painted camoflauged Ford pickup right into the yard, over the freshly cut grass and up to the edge of the garden, diesel fumes spewing over the tomato plants. (Question: What is the deal with camoflauged trucks? Is it to broadcast one’s passion for hunting? Or is it for hunting from the front seat of your truck? Or both?)
Tip-off #2: The wife wore a t-shirt that said “HILLBILLY HUNT CLUB.” (For visual reference, her personage was similar to this gal here)

Tip-off #3: The wife came scurrying over to my side, got down on her hands and knees to get a good look at my suckling baby and said, “Now don’t you be embarrassed, mama. You ain’t got nothin’ that I ain’t got. I got titties just like you. A tittie ain’t nothin.’”
A tittie?
I’ve never been wild about that word, as it brings to mind castmates of Jersey Shore, but especially when it’s used in the context of breastfeeding. I immediately pulled the blanket closer to my chest.
“I said don’t you be embarrassed,” she said, edging her face closer to my bosom.
I turned away from her and looked over to Jake who was bent over in the garden, oblivious to my little problem. “Help,” I cried on the inside.
But then she suddenly lost interest in my “titties” because the next thing out of her mouth was:
“Don’t you ever beat this baby in front of your dogs.”
“What?”
“Because if you beat your baby in front of your dogs, they’ll attack her.”
“Um, that’s a great bit of parenting advice. Jake?” I stood up and pried June off my chest and fastened my nursing bra, feeling violated. June began squalling. I moved away from her and sat down in another section of yard.
Is there a lesson here? Yes. Be careful where you breastfeed. And don’t beat your babies in front of your dogs.