I was sitting on the floor of the nursery at 2 a.m., trying to hold my three-day-old baby girl gently rather than in a vice grip that would betray the excruciating pain I was in trying to breastfeed her. No matter how many beautiful platitudes my husband desperately whispered in my ear, the only words I was hearing were, ?If you?re doing it right, it won?t hurt.?
My water had broken ten days after my due date on a night so cold the hospital?s parking gates froze shut. Almost 48 hours to the minute later, my daughter entered into the world. I had become maternity ward lore with my lengthy labour; nurses popped in and out of our room to check my dilation and exclaim, ?We can?t believe you guys are still here!? The birth itself was a relatively easy two-and- a-half-hours of pushing, thanks to an epidural, an incredible support staff, and a carefully curated Beyoncé playlist. I didn?t cry when they put her on my chest, either from sheer exhaustion or perhaps the knowledge that the hard work had only just begun. And first on the list of hurdles to jump: breastfeeding.
Throughout my pregnancy, I tried to stay realistic about nursing, reading numerous articles and essays about women for whom it just didn?t work out. I desperately wanted to do it, but hoped that, if it wasn?t in the cards for me, I could save myself the heartache by printing out enough research to reassure myself that I wasn?t to blame.
After the birth, a nurse led me through my first feed. It took a few tries, bu...