I read and read about it, attended lectures and meetings concerning it, wrote papers on it, presented them at conferences, argued about its Environmental, Social, and Political Consequences . . .
. . . then I felt that first suck. That first searching, rooting, blistering suck. And with labor-heavy sliding arms falling away from one ill-positioned mouth, I realized that I actually knew nothing about breastfeeding in any way that matters to the mother of a 10-minute-old baby.
In my post-labor euphoria, as I sat drinking sparkling grape juice, my nurse Laura described a breast infection she contracted while nursing with a phrase I found, at the time, not exaggerated but simply impossible: “and you thought labor was painful . . .”
Fifteen weeks later after two bouts of mastitis and roughly 840 nursing sessions sans left nipple, I considered her comparison an understatement. I would gladly have compacted all of this pain into 12 hours of labor and be done. As it was, about every three hours for the first four months of her life, I would latch Zoë on and start counting. The lighting usually stopped striking after 25 sucks. That is, my toes would uncurl, I would stop sweating, and I could open my eyes and engage in conversation. She would usually be done in 100 swallows, though if she was really hungry, she could reach 150—even 200.
Somewhere in this period, I got an email from my college mentor and avid breastfeeding supporting asking me to consider contributing a write-up of my “breastfeeding testimony” to an LDS mother’s breastfeeding guide, and I realized that without me knowing it, that’s exactly what had happened. I had developed a testimony of breastfeeding.
It’s something I’ve long known to be “true.” There are so many reasons—from the personal health of one’s child to the health of whole underdeveloped countries of children to the wily and unethical practices of formula companies. Breast milk not only contains live antibodies and so many components that a new one is discovered practically every year, but it also is tailored to the specific age and developmental needs of one’s child. By breastfeeding, one saves an exorbitant amount of money while also cutting down on the waste produced by formula packaging. And when mothers in developing countries breastfeed, the crucial health benefits of the practice are compounded by the fact that they never have to resort to using dirty water (due to the unavailability of the clean variety) or insufficient formula (due to its expense).
But aside from the above benefits, breastfeeding is powerful politically. And for this reason I’ve long been an advocate of breastfeeding in public (which doesn’t mean doing so “immodestly”) rather than cloistering oneself in a bathroom , car, or other private area. Unfortunately, our society is such that it’s acceptable to see most—if not all—of a breast engaged in seduction for advertising or entertainment purposes but weird/gross/inappropriate, etc. to see a hint of such engaged in the feeding of a baby. Where American breasts are concerned, biology has lost out in the battle with fetishization. (Having said all that, I have to admit that the mother’s lounge at church is not the symbol of all that is wrong with American culture I once thought it to be. It’s actually a nice, comfortable place with a cool set of interesting women to talk to.)
I realize I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. There has long been a campaign in this country to get more women to breastfeed and for longer. The government’s stated goal was to have 50 percent of American mothers breastfeed at least 6 months by 2010. So for—according to a recent BYU study—77 percent begin doing so but only 36 percent make it to the half year mark. And 6 months is a minimum. The American Association of Pediatrics of course recommends a year, while international organizations like the WHO recommend two years (Americans everywhere gasp).
And, like the untested ideological convert I was, I could never fathom why anyone would choose to do anything other than exclusively breastfeed her child for at least a year. Well, I do now. And it has nothing to do with ignoring statistics or fact lists or recommendations. In that first week postpartum it has to do with survival. (It also has to do with education, support, and sometimes medical and other circumstances beyond control, though a “poor milk supply” isn’t one of them—a topic for another post.) I never fathomed how hard it was going to be despite repeated hints that “breastfeeding is hard,” hints that never went beyond that simple and fuzzy statement. And it’s not just hard physically. It’s emotionally overwhelming to go from normal to a healing exhausted hormonal state in one day while realizing you are the only thing keeping another person alive—with reminders every hour or so.
I do have to say that the knowledge and conviction I’d accrued about breastfeeding helped me get through that first week—and the 14 weeks following it. But it was only because it was mixed with the intense love I felt for my daughter. Combined, it really did feel like a trial of faith and I do feel like now I’ve emerged with a fuller belief in what ultimately has become a sacred relationship between me and Zoë, sacred in the way so many really important things are, in that they masquerade as mundane most of the time.
Because Zoë had such a hard time breastfeeding at first and because I was so determined for it to work, I refrained from giving her pacifiers or bottles (of pumped milk) during the period when she may have accepted them. And the one or two times I’ve tried since, she’s rejected them—understandably so. And though this rejection means that I end up doing things like nursing while standing and teaching a Relief Society lesson, it also has fundamentally shaped me and Zoë’s relationship. She is where I am. Always. And that’s a physical bond I’m never going to have with her again after this year or two is up—a period of time that is flying by and that I’ll never get back. And my most sacred moments with her, the moments when I’ve felt the most intense love and the greatest responsibility for her soul, have taken place while she’s wrapped around me, one hand lovingly poised on my back, the other curled around my finger, eyes rolled back, and those blessed swallows the only noise in the room.
. . . I thought I'd surprise him with a Tiki lounge birthday party (thanks to our neighbors Dean and Bev, who have converted their garage into a cute "tiki lounge") on Friday. There was pool playing, limbo-ing, piñata hitting (and kicking), and surfing movie watching. Great fun. And he was very surprised.
It was really nice to enjoy lots of adult conversation, gourmet food, and a lovely setting, though I did run back to the house twice to nurse someone back to sleep. Luckily, the Haunted Haycock Mansion is close to our house.
And I got a haircut. Nothing nearly as exciting as Josh's--pretty much an update of the same 'do I've had for a couple years now. But the shorter length was much needed since all my hair is falling out since having Zo
I visited Daddy on his movie set. (Isn't my grandma beautiful?). 
