At some point, it's going to happen. My 15-month-old daughter, Divya, will grow up and relinquish her rights to my wife's breasts. "It's all yours, Dad," she will say. "I'm done."
Don't get me wrong: It's not like I'm eager or anything. It's not like I'm putting up signs in our home that say, "Cow's milk: It's udderly delicious." It's not like I'm longing for the days when I could watch swimming on TV without feeling nostalgic every time the announcer says, "Coming up next: the breaststroke."
I really don't begrudge my daughter's breast attachment, even if the word "monopoly" no longer makes me think of the board game. I'm glad she's being breast-fed, I'm glad she's enjoying it so much and I'm glad she's staying away from my nipples. Yes, men do have nipples, the purpose of which was unknown for thousands of years, until a group of college students discovered, quite brilliantly, how easy it is to hang rings from them.
If men produced milk, perhaps breast-feeding would be more common, perhaps public breast-feeding would be widely accepted. Just picture rap star 50 Cent on TV saying, "I breast-feed everywhere I go: At the post office, in the grocery store, even in the record studio. Nothing makes me feel good like nursing my son, Dime."
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