Maple Syrup and Titties: Life with a wife on Fenugreek

My life no longer smells like pancakes. This is mainly because my wife no longer smells like maple syrup. She had been taking Fenugreek supplements, and in the doses she was consuming, they made her smell exactly like maple syrup. They made everything smell like maple syrup. But now she says they’re too expensive, you know, with only one of us working and all. I am not protesting. I’ve had just about enough of life inside a syrup bottle, and it means my wife’s life as a dairy cow is finally nearing its end.

It’s amazing how much our lives have revolved around breast milk and its quantity from the moment Jack was born. We had chosen to go the breast feeding route prior to Jack’s birth for all the usual and natural reasons, but little did we know that he’d be pretty much insatiable; contributing heavily to months of “breast stress” and requiring all sorts of supplemental formula bottles and Julie’s incessant consumption of gallons of water and fist fulls of ayurvedic herbs, just to keep up with him.

Fenugreek is an herb used in Indian cooking and curries. It smells and tastes like maple syrup, and in fact they use it to flavor some cheaper syrups from time to time. Breastfeeding moms have been taking the supplement for years to help increase milk production due to it being an herbal galactagogue that increases lactation. To me, it’s just one of many old wives tales and tips that I’ve been privy to now that we have a baby, but Julie swears by it and gobbled the pills up by the hand full. She was convinced that they were increasing her milk load, but mostly, they were just making everything smell like my morning waffles twenty four hours a day.

When it started, it took me by surprise. I took a pee after her in an unflushed toilet and started smelling it. It was not a side effect I had imagined, having known nothing about the stuff until she started taking them, and at first I thought I must have gotten some syrup stuck in my beard. Hey, having a beard has its struggles. But after about the third day or so, and a few showers, I was really getting confused. Then I started noticing it not only in the bathroom, but in bed, and in the living room. Our sheets smelled like syrup; our pillows, syrup; our couch cushions, syrup; our rugs, syrup. Anything she came in contact with was infected. She even tasted like syrup when I kissed her neck, a novel and minor benefit that would quickly outstay its welcome. I was married to Mrs. Fucking Butterworth. The Fenugreek had infiltrated every molecule of her body: her sweat, her urine, and her saliva. I can only imagine it made for some interesting tasting breast milk. No wonder Jack had been hogging the tits, the milk must have tasted like a White Russian or liquid fucking IHOP.

I remember when those tits came out for reasons other than feeding. I used to get to spend some time with them. I used to get to touch them. Now when my son isn’t hanging off of them, they are usually too full or too sore to even try to incorporate them into any other part of our lives. I get to see them out now more than ever, but I don’t get to have any fun with them. They get taken out in the living room, during the Bears game, in the car, in the kitchen, and sometimes even in public. They get taken out in front of family, friends, and total strangers without a second thought. It’s tits, tits, everywhere!

To make matters worse, when they’re not fully exposed, they often get paraded around the house all day in those weirdly sexy nursing bras that offer easy access to the treasures they harness, and oh what treasures they are these days! Julie has never been one to have more than a handful, but now she’s the proud owner of a bona fide rack. She’s filling out all of her shirts, sweaters, Bears jerseys, jackets, and even baggy hooded sweatshirts like she’s Eva Wyrwal, and only one person in this house gets to reap the full benefits. It’s not fair. He owes me, the little fucker. He’s bogarting the boobs and he knows it while I’m left as a neglected bystander. It’s like living in a strip club, minus the poles, the glitter, and the patented stripper smell. There is a strict no touching policy and I’m running out of singles.

Things are looking up for our poor Stay at Home Hero, though. Feedings are happening less, and the damn Fenugreek is finally working its way out of her system. Some day I suppose I’ll look back with fondness at these days when my house was like a 24/7 titty-bar with an all you can eat pancake buffet, but for now I’d rather only smell syrup with breakfast and get those bodacious ta-tas all to myself. I may even get to touch a nipple sometime soon. Until then, waffles anyone?