It’s Only Breastfeeding in Public, People, Not a Wet T-Shirt Contest

(The Nursing Moms Not Gone Wild, Part 1)

Today I was hoping to write a scholarly defense of breastfeeding in public, with or without covering up the wet bar. A hopefully intellectual argument in favor of nursing mothers asserting their state right (yes! I live in nursing friendly Calfornia!) to breastfeed wherever they want, whenever they want, in public or in private.

However, (no) thanks to spiking flu-related fevers and defiant diapered nappers, ample time for this overly opinionated mama to coherently blog/vlog is now irrelevant. As irrelevant as the recent ill-educated, overly sexualized opinions of several male YouTube vloggers who are repulsed practically to the point of upchucking at the sight of a lactating pair of bare breasts aimed into the hungry mouths of babes.

So, given that I could be interrupted by kiddie complaints at any second, I’ll simply share with you my personal experiences nursing my three children. (Funny – Right here is ironically where I had to stop writing and coerce screaming Pigtails back to sleep before she started a domino wake-up effect with her brothers. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy!).

I can’t think of a place I haven’t nursed -- sometimes in hiding in seedy restrooms, from behind a downy wedding gown skirt collapsed in a heap on a dressing room floor, in full, naked chest view of shocked, ogling strangers waiting for the train in Paris and every place in between.

Hey, I’ve even nursed at Starbucks, a place where nursing used to be about as welcome as a branded to-go cup of joe from the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

I’ve even nursed uncovered and bare chested in front of my father-in-law. Ew. Maybe even double ew. (Now that I’ve used a pair of back-to-back “ews,” I can kiss any hopes of coming off scholarly goodbye, right?)

Where was I? So, I decided to breastfeed because I really respected my sister for doing it. Also, the American Academy of Pediatrics book my obstetrician gave me highly recommended it (and I lived by that book as an insecure new mom the first year of my son’s life.)

My mother chose not to breastfeed me. “That just wasn’t the thing to do at the time,” she tells me. Really? I was born in 1975, a supposedly nature-happy time when breastfeeding was making a major post-advent of formula comeback. Chalk her choice up to personal preference, something that is entirely her right.

I suppose which nourishing liquids sustained me in my first days doesn’t matter in the long run. I turned out healthy and thriving having fed only on a factory-made mimic of nature’s best first food.

When I was a happily bottle-fed baby my mother and her French-Canadian friends and sisters nicknamed me “grosse poule,” which means “chubby chicken” or “fat chicken,” so it’s not as though I starved without mother’s milk. Later, in my tall, lanky teens, I looked more like an emaciated, starved chicken than a portly one. Now, well, I think I’m once again leaning towards the title of chubby chicken.

Let’s go back six years past, when I had my first son in the hospital, where I sloppily, feebly attempted to breastfeed him seconds after he took his first amazing breaths. Well, that is as soon as he was squeaky cleaned, suctioned and pricked by the eager nurses as well as inspected head-to-toe by my protective husband. (Why does he always get to hold our babies first? I’ll never know because, trust me, I’m soooo done having babies.)

Experts backed by tomes of lab research say infants have a better chance of learning to breastfeed if they latch on directly after birth. At the time of my first pregnancy (an emotional, touch-and-go, bed-rest mired nine months) I steeped myself in how-to first-time-mom books. Armed with facts, figures and the resolve to succeed, I wasn’t about let myself "fail" at breastfeeding. (Now I understand that there is no failing at such an act. Only trying your best and going from there.)

I was determined to avoid formula, even if it meant cracked, sore nipples and sleepless sour milk nights. As a result, I endured all three for weeks.

Have you heard of the term “breastfeeding Nazi”? Well, that was me. Breast is best and all the rest. Totally convinced that breastfeeding was a gift all mothers should and must give their deserving babies. It was judgment city for my formula feeding friends and family. Like everything else, I admit it. I was a bitch about breastfeeding. Sometimes I still am.

Flashback again to when my first son was a nursing infant .. When visitors came to have a peek at our new bundle of boy, I shyly retreated to my bedroom in the far end of the apartment when it was time to feed him. Rarely did I nurse in front of guests, outside of my mom and mother-in-law. Both were at “that end” when their first grandson crowned, so I figured they’d already seen it all. What difference would a nipple or two make? My mother-in-law nursed both of her sons and even helped me with a few pointers when I asked.

My first few attempts at “undercover” nursing my first-born son using a fancy, expensive felt breastfeeding bib manufactured by some trendy baby product company didn’t fly. It was like trying to drive in traffic with a blindfold on. Sweaty and stressful. My little muffled below baby breathed labored, gasping breaths. It almost sounded like he was suffocating. I hated it and he seemed to too. Later, I switched to lighter swaddling blankets and eventually got the hang of it without sending him into a fit of frustration.

Once I felt he was portable, which was a ridiculously long time thanks to new mom paranoia and a serious case of post partum depression, I carefully toted my son around neighborhood parks and beaches in an Over the Shoulder Baby Holder.

(I wonder if the folks who named that contraption were puffing something wacky and skunked when they named it. Hmmmm. Dorky name or not, my Over the Shoulder Baby Holder worked.) Now I could easily nurse my hungry sapphire-eyed guy in public by simply pulling a pinch of fabric over his vacuum suctioned face. No onlookers were the wiser. At least I didn't think they were.

Baby number two was a completely different story. He was nearly attached to the breast 24/7. I was a ‘round-the-clock feeding machine, and it didn’t matter where I was. He had to have it. I learned to walk and nurse. Even run after his 2-year-old big brother at the park and nurse.

The mini-troopers are restless and unruly. Sick of staring at the back of my blogging head. Part two will hopefully come as soon as I time-out them into submission!