When I found out I was pregnant, I decided to break the cycle of formula-fed babies in my family and give breastfeeding an honest try. I knew it would be a struggle, but everything I’d read suggested that even six months of exclusive breastfeeding would provide my daughter with amazing health benefits. I figured that if I could go without drinking and sushi for nine months, I could do anything for my little girl.
But over the next three weeks, I would come to eat my words. Feeding time was not the beautiful bonding experience I’d read about, but a constant struggle to get my daughter to latch properly and stay awake. Instead of rocking peacefully with a book or a cup of tea, I spent most of our nursing sessions blubbering tearful prayers that things would somehow magically fall into place. Had my husband not been there with his words of encouragement, I’m certain I would have given the whole thing up.
Then one day, everything clicked and I became a lean, mean breastfeeding machine, whipping out my girls with conviction in response to my daughter’s hunger cries. I beamed with pride every time I received words of encouragement from those who admired my commitment to my daughter’s health. But I was pleasantly surprised to discover that there was something in it for me as well. I had come to cherish those quiet moments my little girl spent in my lap, and I was admittedly spoiled by the convenience of having a 24-hour baby diner right at my fingertips. I also think a part of me loved knowing that I was the only person in the world who could provide her with the nourishment she needed.
But after my daughter’s first birthday, the praise began to wane. The same people who commended me just a few months ago now gave me disapproving looks when they saw my nursing cover appear. I questioned if I was doing the right thing or just too lazy to wean. Every week I promised to banish her from the boobs for good, but my daughter refused to give up without a fight. I didn’t have the heart to cut her off cold turkey, but I didn’t want her to be the only kid in the first grade with a bottle of breast milk in her lunch box!
Today, at 15 months, I’ve dwindled our nursing sessions down to one in the morning and one just before bed. That way, I can keep my dirty little secret in the privacy of our home. I can avoid the critical stares of people in restaurants who wonder why a little girl who can eat a grilled cheese sandwich and fries is still nursing from her mother’s breast. And I don’t have to explain to her grandparents that continuing to breastfeed won’t make her want to live with us until she’s 40. One day she’ll prefer gossiping with girlfriends to hanging out with me. In the meantime, I’ll cherish our few minutes of Mommy and Me time each day, even if the rest of the world doesn’t understand.
