Students Of Success

When I found out I was going to become a mom, there were a lot
of things to consider. I had to think about whether or not I
wanted to immunize, who would be at my birth and what to name
the baby. I thought about whether I would quit working all
together or try to work from home, who to invite to the birth
and whether or not to give my newborn vitamin k. But there were
some things that were a given from the moment I stood in my
obgyn’s office and heard her tell me I was pregnant. I would
have a home birth, I would sleep with my baby and I would
breastfeed. Forever, if I could. So from the moment that sweet
little pea slid out of my body and latched on, I was as hooked
as she. I couldn’t really imagine that there would be folks who
would be offended by my tendency to whip ‘em out at any given
moment, sort of like how when I was growing up I couldn’t
imagine that there were really republicans and that I would ever
meet one. And so I approached public breastfeeding with an
almost “I dare you” sort of philosophy. I was a firm believer in
feeding on demand from the very beginning, and if my daughter
wanted to nurse right at the moment I happened to be standing in
the checkout line at the supermarket, then the formula feeding
mother of four behind me and the Harley Davidson rider in front
of me were just going to have to be privy to our not-so-private
moment. I could often be seen wheeling her stroller with one
hand as I walked down the beach cradling my suckling daughter at
my bosom. It doesn’t take long to learn how to use your two
hands as if they are four when you’re a breastfeeding mother.

There were certainly stares, and the occasional nudge to a
friend as strangers passed me and my breasts in public venues. I
let the obscene comment of a teenager or two roll off my
shoulders (only because they were teenagers), feeling sad that
seeing a breastfeeding woman as nature intended her was cause
enough to incite such nasty comments in the new millennium’s
generation of kids. I wondered what that said about our society.
If nothing else, it said that not enough women are either
breastfeeding at all, or comfortable enough doing it publicly to
normalize the experience for those around us. And sadly, this
directly affects our children. When we are uncomfortable
breastfeeding, we will turn more quickly to alternate forms of
nourishment, forsaking the ultimate nutritional and bonding
value of breast milk for bottles (even those who choose to pump
are robbing themselves and their children of the many other
benefits of breastfeeding).

As those of you who’ve breastfed children yourselves already
know, it takes a little time to really get the knack of it. So
in beginning, I must admit, my grace was suffering and often I
stumbled through the experience, unable to successfully lift one
side of my shirt without lifting the other, accidentally untying
the bow on my postpartum drawstring pants, not to mention
needing to expose the entire breast just to get my daughter to
the nipple. But these things happen, and with a little practice
we soon became an expert team. I could push the stroller, browse
the new releases at our local bookstore, carry on a cell phone
conversation and nurse the baby all at the same time. Most
mothers can.

With time, nursing became second nature to me, and I suppose
like every nursing mother these days I was confronted with a
certain facet of society who was “not-so-supportive” of public
breastfeeding. Like a true Sagittarian, I was ready to rumble. I
confess there was a part of me that almost couldn’t wait for the
man the in bank to call me a “f—ing rodent” as I sat on a sofa
quietly nursing my baby girl. I knew what to say to him, I had
it all rehearsed in my head. I almost wanted to get kicked out
of a restaurant, just so I could give the manager a piece of my
mind. I would defend my right to breastfeed with a patriotic
gusto, vehement in my pro-breastfeeding stand. When confronted
with such blatant disapproval, I knew exactly what to say and
stood on strong ground.

The problem came from a less likely place. I had anticipated the
angry passersby and disgusted store owners; what I had not
prepared for was the onslaught of subtle disapproval cleverly
disguised as support. I did not question my motives, my exposed
breast or my timing when openly harassed. It wasn’t until a
kindly woman asked me if I would like her to show me to a more
private corner that I began to feel ill-at-ease. Until then, it
hadn’t occurred to me that many rational people- people who
believed whole-heartedly in breastfeeding- expected that I would
prefer privacy. Her well-wishing concern gave me my first dose
of self-consciousness around the issue, as if someone had
suddenly pointed out that there was something to feel awkward
about where before there had been nothing. While it is words
like hers that led me to examine this very issue, I am hopeful
that one day our society as a whole can return to the place of
my previous naiveté.

When I was approached by an angry man one day who shouted
obscenities at me and my nursing daughter, onlookers were quick
to intercede on my behalf. I was not afraid, nor was I tempted
to give his accusations a second thought. When, however, an
employee later asked me how come I didn’t tell her I was going
to do “that” so she could have let me use a back office, I
quickly wondered if I should have. It was the well-wisher who
made me question my actions, and it is exactly this kind of
statement that reflects a society largely uncomfortable with the
idea that breasts are multi-functional. Most importantly they
are an instrument of sustenance and a means of nourishing our
young, although in the wake of their own revolution we seem to
have forsaken this foremost purpose for one purely sexual. We
witness breasts bared in nearly imagined bikini tops; we walk
around malls and are confronted with posters advertising women’s
lingerie, bathing suits, and blouses cut to accentuate the
cleavage. And hidden among these blatantly sexual depictions is
the lone maternity store, proudly displaying an enlarged
photograph of a sensibly dressed woman in a nursing shirt
cleverly designed to hide her breasts. As though now that they
are suddenly useful for something more than a wet t-shirt
contest we should forget we have them. Now don’t get me wrong; I
am a big fan of the breast. But I am a fan of the breast in all
its glory. There are many faces to each woman’s own, and I am as
proud of the ones I have now as I was of those I had ten years
prior. Please, don’t make me feel ashamed to put them to their
rightful use. As a mother I am expected to care for my child as
I best as I can, and yet I am bombarded with criticism for doing
exactly that.

It is seldom the ignorant and angry public who intimidate this
breastfeeding mom, but the kindly folk who think they are doing
a good thing by propagating the idea that breastfeeding should
be a private experience. Our breasts, in the end, have been so
sexualized that even those with the best intent cannot separate
their sexuality from their functionality. Even those of us who
choose to integrate ourselves into communities which embrace our
choice to breastfeed are hammered with advertisements for
clothing offering “discreet” access. The world around us is
telling us over and over again that they don’t want to see our
breasts (at least not until we are finished breastfeeding and
then only if they are still adequately perky), that we should
hide them, that breastfeeding is a public issue when in reality
it has as much to do with those who happen to be around you as
what you ate for breakfast. The only people who should be
concerned about how you breastfeed are your child and yourself,
and whether the concern of others’ manifests itself in an angry
or a “helpful” way, as breastfeeding women we should learn to
ignore it all. I’m tired of slings that allow you to breastfeed
with minimum breast exposure; I’m tired of being offered a
blanket or a jacket to “cover up” with; I’m tired of being asked
to pay an arm and a leg for clothing with slits on the chest
permitting one to breastfeed while their breasts remain covered.
I’m proud of my breasts and their ability to nourish my
daughter; I love the way she fondles and molds them as she
nurses, the way she stops every so often to say “hi, mama” and
smile or coo (thereby, god forbid, letting my entire breast hang
free for all who pass to see!). I don’t expect her to eat under
a blanket or slurp continuously until she is done, never pausing
for conversation. My daughter eats the same way I do (or at
least did, before I had a baby to care for!): slowly, socially
and savoring each bite. What she has for lunch is as much your
business and what you have for lunch is hers. Let us nurse in
peace, however and wherever we choose to do it.