In all honesty, I never was a big fan of breastfeeding.
I did it because it is, after all, best for the baby, and I was, after all, physically capable. I just never liked it. I bonded with my babies when I could see their faces, and all that New Age-y spiritual hoo-hah people come up with never worked for me. I especially didn't like nursing in public. And pumping, well, you know: moo.
Moreover, if I stopped to think about it (which I mostly tried not to) the fact that my entire life revolved around the digestive system of another person made me feel like my skin was on too tight. To add insult to injury, my bust line is Rubenesque to begin with. When I lactate, I feel like a freak of nature.
Yet I breastfed without hesitation. We do things for love, things that have nothing to do with ourselves and everything to do with someone else (especially when that someone else is our child). And so, my now-6-year-old son, Ted, breastfed until one morning, just after his second birthday, when I asked him if he wanted to nurse, and he said no.
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I cried when I read this essay. ~Ali
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