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I am the product of a very long line of mothers. Each generation produced, loved, and nourished their children with all the zeal anyone could expect a mother to possess. Eventually, I was born, and it is now my turn to do the same for my child.
I am the product of a very long line of mothers. Each generation produced, loved, and nourished their children with all the zeal anyone could expect a mother to possess. Eventually, I was born, and it is now my turn to do the same for my child.
I honestly cannot say that all of the women in that lineage chose to breastfeed since they were just as subject to the fad and scrutiny of their days as I am now to mine. However, I can say with certainty that whatever their biases were, and whatever their reasons could have been, they would be proud of what has come of it.
My immediate family alone includes a fabulous roster of breastfeeders who, without my knowledge (and probably theirs), created an atmosphere in which breastfeeding is acceptable, natural, and preferred. My mom, who gave her best to all eleven of her children, is my primary role model. It was not easy for her as her life was busy, like most mothers. Her first five children were born within five years, including a set of twins. I cannot fathom the attention required to tend to her brood while still providing on demand feeding to the nurslings. She even wet nursed during that time for a hospitalized friend. Mom is an angel. I recall watching her feed my baby sister nearly nineteen years ago, often through the slits of her homemade nighties. I realize now how difficult, and special, that must have been for her. She was in her forties after all, yet she knew the baby was her last. Again, I cannot fathom the emotions she must have been feeling after almost eighteen years of nursing babies. How do you watch that slip away? How do you truly cherish every moment? How difficult it must be to acknowledge the last.
My immediate family alone includes a fabulous roster of breastfeeders who, without my knowledge (and probably theirs), created an atmosphere in which breastfeeding is acceptable, natural, and preferred. My mom, who gave her best to all eleven of her children, is my primary role model. It was not easy for her as her life was busy, like most mothers. Her first five children were born within five years, including a set of twins. I cannot fathom the attention required to tend to her brood while still providing on demand feeding to the nurslings. She even wet nursed during that time for a hospitalized friend. Mom is an angel. I recall watching her feed my baby sister nearly nineteen years ago, often through the slits of her homemade nighties. I realize now how difficult, and special, that must have been for her. She was in her forties after all, yet she knew the baby was her last. Again, I cannot fathom the emotions she must have been feeling after almost eighteen years of nursing babies. How do you watch that slip away? How do you truly cherish every moment? How difficult it must be to acknowledge the last.
Then there are my amazing sisters. I have been blessed with three older sisters, one younger sister, and two beautiful sisters-in-law. The mothers are inspiring examples. Each has a different life--a different husband, different experiences, different dreams, different schedules, and different children; yet each has devoted specific time to their little ones. The investments they made, and continue to make, to feed their babies in this way has impressed upon me the value of such time.
My gorgeous daughter was born six months ago. I was thrilled to experience breastfeeding. It seemed so “motherly”, and given that I was feeling inadequate to the task of being a mother, I figured it was a going to be a free ride to feeling motherly. In my eyes, if that did not make me feel like a mother, nothing else would.
Wonder Baby, as I sometimes refer to her, was a champ. She latched on right away and nursed as though she was being graded on it. The grade she would have received would have been an A+. I provided her with plenty of breast time, and she reaped the benefits. My only real issue was that breastfeeding was not producing the motherly bond I had hoped for, and I was afraid that would never change. With the exception of the occasional oxytocin-induced euphoria, I mostly just felt like a dairy cow.
With the passing of the months our bond has strengthened. I still do not love breastfeeding, but I love nourishing my daughter, and for us, that nourishment goes beyond food. She is nourished with pure adoration, love, awe, silliness, and security at my breasts. She knows that when she is latched on to her mother she can relax and let her little baby worries slip away.
This is why I breastfeed. I do not do it to trumpet my “superior" mothering decisions to the world. I do not do it because I cannot afford the price of formula. I do not do it to spite those who choose not to. I choose to breastfeed because, in the case of that sweet baby girl and myself, it is the right decision. I can confidently declare that the hallmark of my feeling motherly is nourishing my baby the way I know she needs to be nourished. One day I will show her my love by dedicating time to such things as princess tea parties, girls’ nights, or dress-up. But today, I nourish her from my breast.
This is why I breastfeed. I do not do it to trumpet my “superior" mothering decisions to the world. I do not do it because I cannot afford the price of formula. I do not do it to spite those who choose not to. I choose to breastfeed because, in the case of that sweet baby girl and myself, it is the right decision. I can confidently declare that the hallmark of my feeling motherly is nourishing my baby the way I know she needs to be nourished. One day I will show her my love by dedicating time to such things as princess tea parties, girls’ nights, or dress-up. But today, I nourish her from my breast.
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