to whom it may concern, re: breastfeeding my child

Over the past couple of weeks, attachment parenting has gotten some serious attention. Some things that fall under the umbrella of attachment parenting -- probably most intensely, breastfeeding -- have been discussed over and over by lots of people I know, and I've been witness to and involved in those conversations both in real life and on the internet. I have cold unfriended some folks because educating them was not a high enough priority for me to deal with their ignorance in the meantime. That said, however, I'd be remiss to keep out of the fray because for all of the Psychology Today articles, the scientific studies on the nutritive benefits of breastfeeding past infancy, the anecdotal stories I can send you or post passively on Facebook, there is one point that nobody else can make, and I'm here to make it. I'm making it for you, girl with whom I attended high school, who said, "Just put it in a cup!" And for you, lady I used to work with, who said, "U know she's getting off on it, ew lol." For you, dude I don't even actually know, who instructed mothers to "save the boobs for the infants and men," and for you, guy from college who simply said, "perverted." Oh yeah, and you, lady who insisted that breastfed toddlers and preschoolers will grow up to be "creepy mama's boy"s. I'd like to have a word with allayou.

You see, you weren't talking directly to me. You were talking about another woman, another child (both of whom exist in the real world, incidentally, and have actual feelings, FYI) or the hypothetical offspring of hypothetical women. But I'd like you to meet my 29 month old. There he is! His name is George. You probably already know him, because you know me. That's him, breastfeeding. YES! He still nurses, twice a day or more, and he is nearly two and a half. I know it doesn't matter to you, because I've seen you dismiss this statistic with frankly pretty ballsy ethnocentricity, but he is still well below the worldwide average age for weaning. 

You say having breastmilk is fine, but why not use a cup? Well, riddle me this: when I'm out to eat and some guy in his best polo shirt is trying to impress his date by attempting, but failing, to use chopsticks, do I approach him and say, excuse me, but for god's sake just use a fork? Do I mention that eating his dinner noodle by noodle takes so long that it can't have very much nutritional value? Do I suggest he has an Asian fetish? Of course not, because the way someone else eats doesn't affect me at all. 

Next up, perversion. Are you really calling me perverted? Have you ever breastfed someone? I'd like you to come over at bedtime, watch my child nurse after we read stories and then call our nightime routine perverted. To my face. To his face. Right in our real-life faces. If you can't do that, kindly STFU. 

Benefits? Not too long ago, George had a bug. It was gross. Real gross. We called the doctor, who advised us to start giving him Pedialyte. "He still nurses, so we've been doing that..." "OH!" said the doctor. "Just do that, then. Great!" If you'd care to, please feel free to stop by her office or make an appointment to challenge our family doctor (a regular ol' allopathic physician, so don't go accusing her of being one of those dreaded hippie naturopaths). Her name is Kellie Jacobs and every time we see her, she congratulates me for still giving my children the many benefits of breastmilk (high five, Dr. Jacobs!). Where did you get your immunology/medical degree again?

Now, as for raising someone who will turn into a lecherous cling-on, I suppose that remains to be seen. What do you think about George, though? Does he seem overly attached to you? When we ran into you at the grocery store, or the pizza place, or when we saw you at the park, did he strike you as a kid with no coping skills? Was he whiny and demanding, entitled (you know, more than a normal toddler)? Did he seem unhealthy? Or was he running around, singing Old McDonald to himself, addressing the waitstaff with pleases and thank yous, doling out hugs and pleasant conversation, eating "real food" and drinking water from a glass...? If you saw us, and felt worried for the way my son might turn out, you sure did hide it well! In fact, you (and you, and you) have commented many times on what a bright, happy, funny, beautiful, caring child he is. Thanks again; you were right!

My son has been able to "ask for it" since he began signing 'milk' at five months old (and before that, he "asked for it" by rooting, of course). By many people's stated standards, he should've weaned then. Rather than punish my kid for newfound communication skills, however, I encouraged him. I breathed a sigh of relief: one fewer thing to guess about among the many unsureties of parenthood. If your "ask for it" rule really only applies to kids who can say some clear version of "I need to nurse" (including "I want boobies," which is just fine whether you like it or not, because they aren't your boobies to get offended over), well, I'll leave you with this: You probably aren't someone who finds it easy to say, "I need a hug." That's an assumption I'm making because you come off as uncomfortable with close, open, mutually beneficial relationships. Whether or not that's true is kind of irrelevant, but if you said to me, "I need a hug," you know what? I'd give you one. I wouldn't say, hey man, you seem pretty in touch with your needs, so you can probably come up with a coping mechanism on your own. I wouldn't question your motives or assume you were trying to manipulate me. I wouldn't try to determine if you were really and truly sad enough to deserve a hug. As such, I take my son's needs at face value as well. And when he's ready to give up this coping skill, this source of nutrition and comfort and immunity, his body and his heart will tell him so. If it becomes a chore I can't bear before then, I'll be the one responsible for explaining that to him. Until then, however, I'll be damned if I let some busybody prude try to make me feel bad for breastfeeding my child. 

body politics and the willies

When I made it through the first trimester of pregnancy with my milk supply intact and no soreness like I'd been warned of, I thought George and I were free and clear to keep nursing through this pregnancy. My goal has always been to breastfeed on demand until two, when we'd switch to the no offers/no refusals game plan, which would lead to weaning in due time. George has nightweaned himself, with the transition from our bed to his own, and, anymore, only asks to nurse a few times a day; on some especially busy days, he's only asked once. Regardless of frequency, however, it's a part of our relationship I don't want to give up, and certainly not prematurely (not to mention: it's my only way of getting him to sleep without the aid of one adept papa). 

One thing I hadn't worried about and, hence, hadn't prepared for, was the nursing heebie-jeebies. As in, a total aversion to breastfeeding my child. We've had a great and easy road and I've never felt even a twinge of the body-related resentment toward George that I'd heard expressed by some other mothers or discomfort with breastfeeding created by the over-sexualized and unfriendly-to-nursing culture in which we (unfortunately) live. So when, a few weeks ago, slight soreness gave way to OH MY GOD DON'T YOU DARE COME NEAR MY BOOBS, KID I was shocked and bummed and guilty-feeling. My poor, sweet, little dude just wanted some noms. I hoped the feeling would go away -- that it was just a fluke -- and I'd be able to enjoy that part of our day like I had in the past. But it hasn't gone away. And it's kind of messing with me. 

I am so incredibly comfortable with enforcing my need for personal space. Anyone who's shared my bed can tell you that I am not to be bothered in the middle of the night. Cuddling? Hell no. I don't like to be tickled, either, so call me a joykill but stay away from my knees if you value your nose's structural integrity. I can say no, believe strongly in my right to do so and can safely say I've never willingly compromised my body for someone else. Until now. And I'm doing it three + times a day. 

Maybe I just need someone to feed me cotton candy while I nurse?

Every time George's little hand opens and closes to say he wants milk, I cringe. It hurts, it's hot and I just want it to be over. And I feel like the world's worst asshole. My supply is dipping, so there's no telling how much he gets, and as though he's trying to make up in time what he's lacking in product, he wants to stay latched on FOR. EVER. Through the entirety of the morning -- 6:30 to 8am, and again through his whole nap, waking when I desperately extricate myself. I've read so many articles and blog posts  for tips, and some of the suggestions work, if briefly. Some of the voices are genuinely reassuring. But I'm still having a hard time parsing my belief in respecting my own body and limits while maintaining what's obviously an important facet of my relationship with my son. 

Parenting comes with a healthy dose of self-sacrifice and I daresay anyone who argues otherwise is doing it wrong. I don't think, however, that you're obligated to hand over all body autonomy if doing so is giving you the willies. To forsake my own comfort especially around such a potentially intimate body part seems innately un-Feminist. Is it? Is there an intersection of feminism and motherhood with a permanent red light? It seems that the short answer is yes; the long answer no with a but. And that makes me uncomfortable, too. To be the first woman to yield to my son -- whom I am (with luck) teaching that women's (and everyone's, really) bodies are to be respected and protected, especially in a political climate that decreasingly supports that idea? I'm probably over thinking it, but it seems to set a precedent I don't like. My best bet may be to grin and bear it: to never let him think he has to convince me, both because that's the kindest way, and because it doesn't teach him that coercion is an option. 

I'm devoted to child-led weaning, so I'm sure I'll continue gritting my teeth until oxytocin overcomes the heebie-jeebies, George gives up on his own or the new baby brings back my supply, any illusions of control over my own chest wash away with a new, never-ending batch of spit-up stained laundry, and breastfeeding becomes the hormonal love-fest it used to be. And I'll continue to question my own politics, my own motivations -- to check in with my methods -- because doing so is healthy. It keeps me relevant, or at least as relevant as a stay-at-home mom can be (ha!).