{"id":5181,"date":"2016-06-13T09:18:05","date_gmt":"2016-06-13T03:48:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/13.201.39.237\/?p=5181"},"modified":"2016-06-13T09:18:05","modified_gmt":"2016-06-13T03:48:05","slug":"breatfeeding-mothers-parenting-feminism-motherhood","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/13.207.105.184\/?p=5181","title":{"rendered":"Why Breastfeeding is Important for Mothers"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

W<\/span><\/p><\/div>

\nhen I try reimagining the birth of my son \u2013 his passage from my womb into the world \u2013 most of the details feel indistinct. What I recall with startling vividness though is the snapping of the umbilical cord, so my <\/span>child<\/span><\/a> \u2013 until then a vital part of my body, connected to me by tissue and blood \u2013 is separate.\u00a0What I recall next are my doula\u2019s hands leading him toward my breast. I see his mouth opening, an \u201cO\u201d seeking, clutching.\u00a0So, all at once, as he breastfeeds, we are stitched back together. We\u2019re of one piece.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nBefore I conceived almost two years ago, baby-rearing was an obscure country \u2013 one I had no views about. I had ignored the debates raging around <\/span>parenting<\/span><\/a> \u2013 if infants ought to co-sleep with their parents and if caregivers ought to babywear. Perhaps the only aspect of caregiving I felt vaguely attached to was breastfeeding.\u00a0In truth, I was attached to my mother\u2019s stories of breastfeeding \u2013 of how, after delivering me, she held me close all night so the hospital would not sneak in a bottle of formula; of how she ignored the pleas of her mother, who would remind her, \u201cWe are educated people, I tell you, we don\u2019t need to nurse on demand!\u201d; of how she kept breastfeeding me until I self-weaned at three.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nWhen I\u2019d listen to my mother, I\u2019d see breastfeeding for what it is \u2013 an act of fierce maternal love, yes, but an act, too, of <\/span>feminism<\/span><\/a>, of honouring the female body\u2019s voice. I sensed that nursing a newborn was a primal biological impulse \u2013 one that propelled a new mother to keep alive the story of sustenance, one that empowered her so she could gift her baby nourishment at the breast as she once had within the womb.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>\n\nI was clear \u2013 if ever I had a child, I would breastfeed him, let my blood grant him strength.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nYet it wasn\u2019t that simple. Soon\u00a0after my son was born \u2013 after my doula ensured he had had his fill of colostrum, first milk rich in antibodies \u2013 it became evident. He and I were unable to sustain a latch.\u00a0<\/span> \n\nThis wasn\u2019t how it was meant to be. I had pictured breastfeeding as organic,\u00a0<\/span>easy <\/span><\/i>even \u2013 my child\u2019s mouth making his way to my breast; my breasts yielding milk; my child and I, content in one another. Yet there I was, less than a week after my son\u2019s birth, howling by my bed. Five days of exclusively pumping by the hour, of storing\u00a0<\/span>minuscule<\/span> quantities of milk in the fridge, of unfreezing cupfuls to spoon-feed an insatiable newborn, had left me with frayed nerves and a touch of cynicism regarding the entire myth of <\/span>breastfeeding<\/span><\/a>.\u00a0<\/span>\n\n

I was ready to give up. I was ready to admit that I had been vanquished by total exhaustion and by a body intent on letting me down.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\nI was ready to give up. I was ready to admit that I had been vanquished by total exhaustion and by a body intent on letting me down. I was, in truth, saying that nursing wasn\u2019t for me.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>\n\nAnd yet, as I held my son against my <\/span>sobbing<\/span><\/a> body, as I felt his hands, so tiny, desperately clutching my breasts, I found building within me a strange kind resolve \u2013 I owed him a gentle start.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nIt took a month of perseverance, and the benign guidance of four lactation consultants, for my son and me to move past an overused breast pump and learn the subtle art of feeding at the breast.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nThat it is art is a certainty \u2013 an art that benefits from mentors; an art that demands tenacity; an art that asks for technique. To establish a successful breastfeeding association, I had to be trained in a series of tricks, largely to do with methodology \u2013 how to align a heap of cushions so my baby would be at the perfect height, how to hold him such that he could latch without difficulty, how to offer him my breast so his grip would cease being shallow. But beyond this, I was taught how to rein in the mind, so it would stop churning, stop dispensing <\/span>messages<\/span><\/a> that would hinder the release of milk. Breathe, I began reminding myself every hour, by the hour. Inhale \u2013 <\/span>you can provide<\/span><\/i>. Exhale \u2013 <\/span>your child is nourished<\/span><\/i>.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nFor months, my baby and I fine-tuned our breastfeeding association. We were not unlike two soloists trying to perform a duet \u2013 perfecting each scale and note. I was beginning to read my child\u2019s cues, balance him in the crook of my arm, align his head by my breast. He was beginning to open his mouth wide, gulp in a mouthful of skin, suck forcefully. It took time and <\/span>patience<\/span><\/a>, the way any composition would. Eventually, what burst through was\u00a0a moment of perfect harmony.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nToday, breastfeeding feels effortless \u2013 my son\u2019s clamber into my arms at night, my offering of milk, both of us barely conscious. It\u2019s a part of our every day \u2013 whether we are in aircrafts, in moving vehicles, or in shops and restaurants with milling crowds. It\u2019s how we <\/span>navigate<\/span><\/a> life \u2013 by staying close, feasting.<\/span>\n\nOn an ordinary day, when my son breastfeeds, he\u2019s having an early lunch or dinner. Then there are those extraordinary moments embedded within each week. When nursing turns into an exchange of notes of love. At such times, breastfeeding is pure <\/span>music<\/span><\/a>.\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I was clear that if ever I had a child, I would breastfeed him. Yet it wasn\u2019t that simple. My baby and I were unable to sustain a latch. This wasn\u2019t how it was meant to be.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":360,"featured_media":5182,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[170],"tags":[8780,710,1394,243,471],"class_list":["post-5181","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-gender","tag-breatfeeding","tag-feminism","tag-motherhood","tag-mothers","tag-parenting"],"yoast_head":"\nWhy Breastfeeding is Important for Mothers<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"I was clear that if ever I had a child, I would breastfeed him. Yet it wasn\u2019t that simple. My baby and I were unable to sustain a latch. 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