Either my breasts are repulsive…
…or society has a real problem with breastfeeding
I sit in a busy mall, and glance around nervously as I start to unbutton my shirt. Casting furtive glances to either side, I slip down my bra to expose one breast. My fella spots my nipple and lunges in to get a taste, but then I see a cop walking by.
I followed my instincts, reflexively turning so he couldn’t see what I was doing — what we were doing.
You see, while it’s 100% legal in Texas, as well as almost everywhere else in this country, for a mother to breastfeed her child wherever and whenever necessary, many people do not know that, and harass women who opt to breastfeed in public.
In their world, a woman feeding her child is gross and an imposition. The polite, respectable, not-gross thing would be for me to take my child and my perverted tits and just please do all of that in a public restroom stall or… something?
I read up on breastfeeding while pregnant with my first baby, and even attended a class (hosted by Le Leche League) that explained some of the potential pitfalls and how to avoid them in order to have a wonderful breastfeeding experience. I knew it would work for me and be a beautiful bonding experience.
Wrong. So wrong. Boy, was I wrong.
I ended up delivering my first baby early due to my unstable blood pressure. My little “32-weeker” (the amount of time she spent gestating) was whisked away to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) as she couldn’t regulate her body temperature. I went to the Postpartum Intensive Care Unit by myself.
Alone.
I had to be on medication for 24 hours before they allowed me to get out of bed and make my way to the NICU to see my baby. I won’t go into detail here about the pain of getting up for the first time after a c-section. That’s a totally different story, but let me say, it was so horribly painful, that was the part that scared me the most while pregnant with my second baby, haunting the edges of my conscious, waking mind — and positively running riot through my subconscious.
I did not make it up to the NICU to see my little girl until a full 36 hours after she was born — the loneliest hours of my life.
To give birth to a baby, and not even get to hold her, was brutal. I got a nurse to push me in a wheelchair up to see my baby. She was tiny and on a breathing tube, and even the preemie diapers seemed to swallow her little body. Her nurse asked if I wanted to hold her and I mentioned how I wanted to try getting her to latch onto my nipple to get her started on breastfeeding. I was met with a blank stare and flat-out no.
‘Premature babies need formula,’ I was told sternly. ‘Their bodies can’t digest human milk,’ I was told harshly. Even though March of Dimes says otherwise. Even though the American Academy of Pediatrics says otherwise.
But it was too late. I gave birth in a hospital which wasn’t current on breastfeeding best practices, and that was that. I was told that if I didn’t listen to the NICU staff, I risked CPS (Texas Department of Family and Protective Services, here; commonly referred to as CPS, as in Child Protective Services) getting involved.
Because I wanted to nurse her from my breasts.
My daughter was in the NICU for nearly a month. By the time I got her home, my daughter was used to eating from bottles and refused to latch onto my nipple, and even if she had, I was nearly dry by that point.
My breastfeeding experience was not positive. I had serious postpartum anxiety and depression. I had trouble bonding. I felt like an empty shell just shuffling through life. To add fuel to the fire, I would receive dirty looks while mixing her formula in public.
“Breast is best.”
“Formula is for quitters.”
I was verbally accosted on several occasions, adding to my depression. I felt I was a failure as a mom, all because breastfeeding didn’t work.
When I became pregnant with my second baby, I did my research. I found a new doctor and a new breastfeeding-friendly hospital. I made plans ahead of time, and packed my hospital bag with everything I would need to successfully breastfeed. My husband thought I was being paranoid, but I had to make it work this time. I was scheduled for a repeat c-section and my amazing doctor assured me I would be able to start nursing right there in the operating room as long as my son was healthy. He was full term so it was unlikely he would have any health issues that would require him to be moved to the NICU.
My son was born without complications, and my doctor stayed true to his word. As my abdomen was being sewn shut, I laid on the table with my breasts exposed, and let my newborn son try to latch on my nipple. I spent the next two days in the recovery ward, topless and letting my son nurse on demand.
This time, I didn’t get postpartum anxiety and depression. This time, I had zero trouble bonding. This time, my uterus shrunk back quickly. All of these are well-documented benefits of breastfeeding.
My son latched on easily, and besides the pain of raw nipples, our breastfeeding experience started extremely well. So well, in fact, that my son would flat out refuse a bottle of pumped milk. He only wanted the breast, which made going out in public difficult. I had stocked up on cute, fashionable nursing covers, and thought we were ready to brave the outside world once my son was a month old.
Once again, I was wrong.
My son was born in the Houston summer, and he didn’t like the idea of eating under a cover. I can’t really blame him. I wouldn’t want to eat under that cover, which trapped my body heat and the Texas heat, both, turning my chest into a furnace.
Our first public-feeding experience was a disaster. My son was hungry, but after I got myself properly covered and ready to modestly feed him, he was angry and didn’t want to eat all covered up and hidden from the world. What resulted was loud screaming to draw as much attention to us as possible, followed by wrapping his little limbs in the cover causing me to be fully exposed to all the onlookers. I heard people mumbling. Whispering. I turned beet-red. My husband jumps into action, helping me untangle my son, and cover my breasts, and we ran to our car to breastfeed in a more private setting.
Luckily, moving forward, it was the summer and I could wear a tank top and just discretely pop out a breast whenever my son got hungry. And as he became a seasoned nurser, I would expose no more skin than I would wearing a bikini top. I was still nervous though, and probably always will be.
I was still nervous though, and probably always will be.
My son is now 18 months old, and we are still going strong with breastfeeding. I have heard many comments while nursing my son in public:
- “I don’t want my other children to see this indecency.” If only we could teach our upcoming generations that breastfeeding is natural and not something that should be considered indecent, or smut. It is simply a hungry baby eating. Full stop. It is no different than a toddler snacking on cheerios, or an adult enjoying their protein bar in public. Breastfeeding is natural, non-sexual and in no way indecent.
- “I don’t want my husband/boyfriend/partner seeing this and getting turned on.” Well, for one thing, most people breastfeeding in public show no more skin than they would wearing a bikini top. Are you worried about your partner seeing women in bikinis as well? I’m honestly asking. Second, breastfeeding really really REALLY isn’t a sexual activity. At all. Even my husband doesn’t see my naked breasts as sexual while I’m feeding our son. In that moment, they’re just instruments, a means to keep our baby fed, happy and healthy.
- “Why don’t you just do it in the bathroom?” Would you want to eat your lunch in a public bathroom? I sure wouldn’t.
- “New moms should just stay at home until they are done breastfeeding.” Really? We should just stay home for the first year, which is the time-frame recommended for new moms to breastfeed?
That is neither feasible nor fair. New moms need to go out, which usually means taking their babies with them. The world you’re proposing is one in which women are tethered to both their baby and home for the sake of… your delicate sensibilities? I think not.
So what do we do?
You may decide not to nurse. A woman has the right to choose. Just as I would never ever shame you for your decision not to breastfeed, I hope that women who don’t breastfeed still advocate for the women who do.
You don’t have to have had an abortion to advocate for reproductive justice; you just have to have compassion and empathy.
And for the women who do elect to nurse, be confident and aggressive about your decision. You will encounter dozens, if not scores, of condemnatory, misguided lectures; everyone from laymen off the street [thanks!] to medical professionals [double thanks!] will feel as though they have a right — and an obligation — to police what you do with your tits and your baby.
Fuck them.
And for everyone else: if you see a woman nursing in public, give her a warm, friendly smile (it’s a beautiful thing!) and also know that, in the prior week, she has probably sat through a half-dozen condescending lectures from middle-aged, finger-wagging dudes about how distasteful and repulsive she is, what a detriment to society and decency.
Those people clearly have their own issues with breastfeeding to work out — preferably with the guidance of trained counselors — but the public-breastfeeding mom does not. She’s doing what she’s supposed to be doing.
For her sake — for her kids’ sakes —why don’t we just let her?
Why can’t we, as a society, do better to support women as they take on the job title ‘mother?’
