What a boob: My breast-feeding failure

Tue, 10 Aug 2010 01:01:00 +0000

The story starts, as most do, with an exhausted, excited, terrified new mother seeking to connect with other exhausted, excited, terrified new mothers. I’d given birth to my son, Elliot, just 10 weeks before and had come to a local breast-feeding support group at the urging of my own mom, who gently but firmly commanded me to get out of the house and talk to the first mother I saw.

Despite my best efforts to resemble some version of my pre-partem self, I was 100 percent Frazzled New Mom as I pulled up. My nursing bra crept out of a shirt stained with spit-up, my hair was a cowlicky mess, my haphazard makeup failed to mask the dark circles under my eyes, and my diaper bag was an erupting volcano of baby essentials. I lugged Elliot and his car seat through the doors only to find the small, cramped room overflowing with mothers and their nursing babies. Every woman was like the serene earth mother of mommy magazine lore. Their babies suckled peacefully at their breasts, occasionally touching the dainty handmade blankets that held them. Their hair was brushed and perfect, their faces fresh. But mostly I noticed not one of the mothers was using the horrible doohickey hiding shamefully in my diaper bag. Not one of the mothers was using the nipple guard.

Salon.com > Jessica Roake

What a boob: My breast-feeding failure