I breastfed my newborn son in the Target dressing room today. My tiny boy, the one who lost ounce after ounce in the hospital, is now over 12 pounds. Why? Because I have nursed him in restaurants, in the front seat of my car, in the recliner, in bed, on the floor, curled up on my friend's couch, and in the Mummy Room at Babies 'R' Us. I have nursed him in the preschool library and at the picnic table next to the garden.
I'm like the "Got Milk?" version of a Dr. Seuss book. I can nurse you here and there, I can nurse you everywhere!
I used to be a formula mum. When my first son was born, I tried desperately to nurse him. But after an unexpected C-section, my body started to fail me. I couldn't stop shaking. I couldn't stand, or walk, or reach over to pick my sweet son up out of the hospital bassinet. I was on so much pain medication that I felt as if I was sleeping with my eyes open. In those first four days at the hospital, I wanted desperately to be present. I wanted to remember my time there with Max. Instead, I could barely hold my head above water, more or less nurse him. I cried, I shook, I slipped into a dark fog that erased my memory of my first few days with my son. I was robbed of the skin-to-skin time that signals to a woman's breasts they should make milk. My stomach had been stapled back together though my heart was still split open. I figured that I'd nurse Max when I felt better.
The darkness subsided eventually, but I had missed the window for welcoming my milk supply. I was devastated, embarrassed, and without an ally. I was angry at myself, and felt betrayed by my body.