Have boobs, will breastfeed. At least, I thought that would be the case.
As an elderly primigravida at age 44 (insulting at first to hear it from the doctors, but it's basically the Latin for old, first-time pregnant lady) my focus was on having a successful pregnancy and a healthy baby.
While pregnant, I didn’t give breastfeeding a second thought, apart from the self-satisfied, va-va-voom of seeing my petite A cup equipment swell to a respectable double-B and thinking, “Of course I’ll breastfeed. That’s what women are built for.” Right?
Watch: Breastfeeding around the world. Post continues below.
In my mind, breastfeeding was a no-brainer.
Breast is best. For manifold reasons, that’s just a fact. And I sported the glands necessary to perform this important maternal act, so assumed it would be easy-peasy.
But between the stress of requiring an unplanned c-section at 39 weeks, being sent home from hospital during a flood (it was January 2011, Brisbane was awash with a once-in-forty-years deluge), in-laws who were stranded in Brisbane and lobbed up on my doorstep, well-meaning visitors arriving unannounced, poor latching, a dehydrating baby rushed to the emergency room on our second day at home, nipples that were on fire, mastitis, the excruciating pain of a killer haemorrhoid the size of a grape, and a partner who was ready to stick a bottle of formula into our newborn’s mouth every timed she uttered a peep, I didn’t stand a chance.