[98 of 100] The Milk Wench
[Note: I started keeping a diary when my wife and I began trying to have a baby. I’d like to share some of it here.]
May 17, 2017
My wife and I went to the hospital today for baby college. It was six hours of nonstop baby knowledge — how to change his diapers, how to make sure he doesn’t die of SIDS, how to swaddle him. Among it all, the class that stood out the most was breastfeeding. I didn’t realize how ritualistic the whole process is, like something out of Mad Max. Here’s how I picture it:
The baby sits in his golden cradle surrounded by minders. He stirs and begins making hunger cues — moving his mouth, turning to breast, or just straight up crying. The herald blasts a trumpet and cries out, “The baby hungers! Bring forth the milk wench!”
The milk wench (mom) is hauled in and seated in a special feeding throne with lush velvet cushions. The herald bows his head and presents the baby with both hands out. The milk wench accepts the baby and places him in one of the many possible feeding positions — football, cradle, crossover.
Once secure, the milk wench presents her breast to the baby while an old crone (the lactation consultant) checks to see if there’s secure “latch.” The crone nods her head approvingly when she sees the baby’s mouth securely around the nipple and not biting into it. “It is good latch,” she croaks.
The herald bangs on a gong and cries, “There is good latch! There is good latch!” Tears of joy are streaming down his face.
The crowd cheers, “Latch! Latch! Latch!” then goes silent while the baby feeds. They kneel and bow their heads, the only sound the soft “ka ka ka” of suckling.
I mean, I don’t know if it’s gonna be that epic in our household, but damn it’s gonna be pretty intense to see my wife literally turned into a feeding machine for the baby. For a year (or more) she’ll be doing double duty as wife and nutrient delivery system. Motherhood is no joke. In fact, I really need to call my mom and thank her.
You should call your mom and thank her, too.
