To the editor:

In response to George Pisani’s Feb. 26 letter, I have done everything to avoid a scene. I purchased fashionable nursing shirts — promises of discretion despite significant investment and little hope of using post-lactation. Burp rag is at the ready. Any quarterback would admire the cradle of my football hold. My two other kids are under foot and I can only hope my voice alone will keep them from running after the ball and into the traffic. My hands are full, and I’m fit to be tied. The baby is wailing.

Why? Because, despite my best efforts, in the time it has taken me to unbutton my nursing shirt with one hand (remember the football hold?), unhook the nursing bra (ditto), entice the baby to latch on and drape our union under a shroud of terry cloth, my breast skin and, yes, my aureole (there, I’ve said it) have been in public view for a nanosecond. Yup, there it is, plain as the nose on my baby’s face.

Now you know my dirty secret, flirting while breast-feeding. I scold myself, “Shame on me, vixen, temptress, for couching an act of carnal lust and indiscretion in the guise of infant nutrition.”

I look up, scan for the other two kids, and catch my breath. I notice the flush of my face as I realize that someone, maybe you have seen my breast. I manage this awkward moment of discovery. My only thought is that someone may find the bulging vein on my forehead and beads of sweat at my temple particularly alluring.

Leda Sedlock,

Lawrence