Before my first was born, I read three breastfeeding books cover to cover. I?d graduated from college when I was five months pregnant and I spent the next five months turning motherhood into my new course of study. I soaked up as much information as I could, and thought I was ready to ace this test. But as it turns out, within hours of giving birth, nursing felt clumsy and painful and I couldn’t remember a word of advice I’d read.
I knew it wasn?t supposed to hurt, but I couldn?t remember what I was supposed to do if it did. In those first few days, I swore loudly every time my little piranha latched on and I could barely keep my eyes open through her endless feeds.
But as the days and weeks went on, it got easier. Time and practice helped, as did the lactation consultant with whom we scheduled regular visits. Slowly, I stopped worrying whether she was getting enough milk?she clearly was, given her growing rolls and how content she looked after a feed, eyes rolling back in her head and milk dripping from the corner of her mouth. I didn?t have to watch as carefully for hunger cues anymore, I just unconsciously noticed her subtle signals and began to lift my shirt without thinking about it.
Breastfeeding became my super power, solving every problem that arose throughout our day. Tired or cranky" Boob. Sick or teething" Boob. Rolled off the sofa and hysterical" Boob, boob, boob.
Everything I had read had extolled the virtues and health benefits of br...