6/1/2005 Boob acceptance too much of a good thing for nursing mom
Haddayr Copley-Woods
Recently, I was treated to quite an eyeful: my oldest son Arie had carefully set up my breast pump and was sitting very still, closely watching the skin on his little chest rise and fall with the suction of the pump.
"I am pumping milk for my baby," he said.
"Oh," I said. "You're pretending to pump."
"I am not pretending," he said. "I am really pumping milk." He stared intently at his flat little nipples again, waiting to see milk flow from them.
Aw, how cute, I thought. Also, I can bribe him later with this. So I ran and got the camera.
"Are you done?" I asked after snapping a few incriminating shots.
"No," he said. "I have not made milk yet."
Again, he watched for progress with grave focus.
We had a discussion then about the nature of nipples and the likelihood that milk would ever come out of his, so he settled for pretending.
Later, I sent my little sister, an obstetrician, the photo, along with another of Arie nursing his baby doll. She asked if she could give it to a lactation consultant she knows for a talk she gives on nursing culture‹how none of us (especially children) are exposed to nursing women anymore in today's society.
Well, this lady has obviously never been to my house. Or my block. Or my work. Here, it's boobs and tubes and milk milk milk everywhere you turn. Arie knows they're boobies (I know, I know, I should have taught him "breasts." Too damn late now), and he even knows about how Mommy wears a bra and puts breast pads in it.
Okay. I'm lying. They're "boob diapers." Now you know.
Once upon a time, my breasts were private. Or at least, I pretended they were. No one discussed them in office meetings because I didn't have to leap apologetically to my feet and sprint for the nearest closed door and electrical socket after about three or four hours. Very few of my friends had seen them, and they weren't a topic for conversation‹certainly not with friends' husbands.
Well, they sure are now: milk duct infections, the pain of teething, the ease or difficulty of pumping and leaking, how long to nurse and comparisons of my boobs with other women's boobs. All very functional. A little like discussing fun kitchen gadgets, or the pros and cons of the latest ergonomic snow shovel.
When my youngest son Éiden was still young enough to nurse at unpredictable moments, I went to a baptism. Right at the moment we were to stand up and share the peace, Éiden latched firmly on and began to nurse. Loudly. Hungrily. Joyfully.
It was the United Church of Christ, so of course no one glared or tskd at me, as I had somewhat irrationally feared. As a matter of fact, everyone who shook my hand had some sort of supportive comment about it, and many women shared memories with me about their own boobs. The next time I go to that church, I think I'll wear a T-shirt that says: "Please stop affirming my choices and let's all just talk about the baby Jesus."
I wish that people could just pretend that they don't see what I'm doing, or that they have no idea why I'm slinking into the back room with the enormous black bag slung over my arm.
In my world, at least, feminism has come full circle: now that it is no longer considered dirty or primitive or sexual to breast feed, everyone has to make up for the years of maternal oppression by loud and vigorous back-patting.
I know, I know. I should count my blessings. In other areas of the country, women have been forcibly escorted from public places for daring to nurse their infants. And at least no one is leering at me anymore, which was most unpleasant.
Well, almost no one. A co-worker of mine giggles every time someone says breast pump, or he sees me hauling it through the office. He can't help it, and I rather appreciate his acknowledgement that despite what some of the boob activists say ("nursing is what breasts are made for!"), breasts are multifunctional organs. For many women, their breasts will never produce milk, but you can bet they get vigorous use out of them ‹ albeit without any discussion at the dinner table.
The point of my writing is this: boobs are wonderful, wonderful things. Now can we talk about the weather or something?
Haddayr Copley-Woods' boobs were once her own. Now, they have somehow even managed to make it into her column for all the world to see.
