My son is 32 years old. The first two weeks of his life he lost a pound and a half. I just didn’t seem to have enough milk and there was no one – no lactation consultant or nurse-practitioner or even another other mom to ask for help. (This was Manhattan in the 70s; there was a lot of anti-natalism and many of my friends literally asked "Do you really want to be pregnant?" ) When I finally went to to the pediatrician he told me I had to supplement the nursing with formula. It felt like such a humiliating sign of maternal failure before I had even begun. Soon after, the milk ran out altogether.
I wish I could describe the tears, the guilt, the sense that I’d damaged this lovely, lovely child for life. I was, after all, hurting his development and immune system. And bonding. And who knew what else?
So when I read about the breast-feeding explosions on Facebook (and I have a Facebook page and admit I really like it, which makes it worse) or Delta Airlines, all these years later and still happening, I’m doubly sad. These attitudes add to the stress that inhibits milk production and I know how stressful nursing can be, especially in the beginning. I know the devastation when it fails. I know the almost unanimous research about the advantage of breast-feeding these new little people, and I believe the "it takes a village" theory enough to feel that it’s everybody’s responsibility to help kids grow up healthy and secure. That’s why I’m here among the nursing moms my kids’ ages. They’re strong and inspired and right on the money. The capacity to nourish an infant is a privilege and a right. And natural. And in no way anything but lovely. I mourned for so long the loss of it for my own children. I still do.