Boob food
Let’s be honest — breastfeeding is weird. Of all the ways humans have departed from our animal ancestors (bipedalism, language, chopsticks, space exploration etc), it’s weird that we still have our offspring sucking food out of invisible holes in our chest. Have you ever seen a nipple with milk coming out of it? And really stared at it? It’s weird!
It’s also bloody complicated. You can’t blame the formula advocates of the last generation for thinking that — with all the swelling, leaking, cracking and bleeding — a silicone bottle seemed more befitting of a walking, talking, chopsticking, space exploring species.
But, around the same time that people decided that they could believe it wasn’t butter, they started to suspect that the scientists and marketeers might not have completely perfected infant nutrition in a powder. They also got tired of all the bottle sterilising. Thus The Boob came back in vogue.
So now, the modern woman is aware that breastfeeding is the Good thing to do, but that she mustn’t judge anyone — including herself — if she doesn’t. Not breastfeeding is like being fat, which is completely fine because every woman’s body is a unique snowflake and all models are photoshopped… but you simply must check out the Top Ten Tips To Lose Ten Pounds! Complicated.
I was told by a lactation consultant (Yes, that’s a thing. See references to Weird and Complicated above.) that I should be proud of how much milk my very small breast was producing. Proud! Like being proud of my eye colour or the size of my poos or any other random physiological characteristic that I have no control over. (To be fair, I am often proud of and/or ashamed by the size of my poos.)
I was not proud. I was sore because a lot of milk in a small breast feels like your chest has been overinflated with a bike pump — and, in my case, without the benefit of a size increase. But that’s part of the strangeness of breastfeeding. It’s edible liquid coming from a sexualised body part in an act that has been medicalised, commercialised, stigmatised and glorified; both fundamentally primal and requiring professional support, laden with cultural baggage and — to top it off — tied up with self esteem and pride?!
My husband was formula fed and I was breastfed. While he is better than me at maths and bread baking, I am superior in dancing and Wordle. Thus I have decided to breastfeed. I’m sure my daughter will resent me for it when future science shows that frizzy hair is passed down via breastmilk. But anyone who knows me knows I should not be trusted with the task of sterilising.
