I was at a friend’s house, sitting around the kitchen with maybe eight adults while a few babies and toddlers roamed around us. A friend-of-a-friend, a father of four, was letting us know his views on breastfeeding: it’s totally gross to breastfeed after about six months, and beyond disturbing to nurse a walker or a talker: “You shouldn’t nurse someone who walks up to you and asks.” He gave the whole body shudder at imagining a little person toddling up to his or her mother to nurse. Over his right shoulder, I saw my nearly-two-year-old headed my way. ‘Uh, oh,’ I thought, ‘this man is about to get a live demonstration.’ To my slight disappointment, my little boy did not run up and stick his head under my shirt. That would have been kind of fun. Instead, several of my friends, who are, of course, aware that #1 nursed until 18 months and #2 shows no signs of slowing down at 22 months, looked at me and grinned. I raised my hand and said, “I still nurse.” The anti-nurser said, “Wait–who do you nurse?” I really wanted to tell him it was my three year old, but I guess there’s only so much he could take. Plus it would have been a lie. I told him the truth, that I still nurse the little guy. The man turned three shades of pink and began to stammer a little. Awww, poor guy–he’s actually a pretty nice person. I didn’t really want to see him suffer. “Hey, no problem,” I said, “I totally get that lots of people think lots of different things when it comes to this, and I’m fine with that.”
To some breastfeeders out there, I let that guy off too easy. But here’s my dirty little secret: I actually do get where he’s coming from. To be very honest, I was a tad grossed out myself, even while pregnant, to imagine breastfeeding a baby. I didn’t get how it would work and how it would not be uncomfortable and how it would not be just plain weird. I remember my mom nursing my sister, and I certainly have always been a vehement supporter of the right to nurse in public with no exceptions, so it didn’t weird me out for other people to do it. But to think of doing it myself (perhaps because of a certain friend’s story–something about the breast pump expelling pink milk from her bloody nipples) did not particularly appeal to me. I decided not to decide until I tried. I didn’t want to set myself up for a disappointment if it was horrible.
And, really, there’s not much of a story once the baby was born. I had outstanding lactation people helping me in the hospital, and calling constantly, even a year later, to check on us and gently support us. I just didn’t have any real problems with it, and happened to like it.
But that’s me–I wonder if this man’s attitude might have affected his wife’s choice to breastfeed or not, or when to stop. I’m guessing she didn’t get a whole lot of support from him if it turned out to be something she wanted to do. On the flip side, the boundary between support and pressure can be tough to call. A friend of mine felt very put upon by the lactation consultants after her baby’s birth. She did not want to breastfeed. So she left the hospital not just exhausted and in pain, but with a huge helping of guilt. A month later, she admitted to me that she thought of throwing her infant against the wall when she was up with her in the middle of the night. I’m not blaming the breastfeeding pressure, but this new mother didn’t need the extra stress, and none do. Another friend really did want to breastfeed, but it just wasn’t working, and was making her miserable, but she felt so much pressure to keep trying. She called me when the lactation person told her to try to get support from a breastfeeding friend. Maybe I was supposed to give her some magic trick to get it working or to talk her out of quitting, but I told her to give herself the choice to stop if she wanted to. I can’t help feeling that heaping unhappiness and stress on a new mother doesn’t qualify as breastfeeding support.
So, yeah, the breastfeeding-a-toddler-is-gross guy got off easy–I could have started a great argument, or at least a lively discussion. But, hey, if he doesn’t like to see that, that’s fine with me. But next time he hangs out with me, he just might.
