Nava is 6 months old today. I constantly worry whether she is getting enough breastmilk; I have a comeback ready if anyone tells me to cover my tatas in public; and I knowingly smile at other moms with small babies. Three words: vanilla ice cream. Making it this far is my proudest accomplishment because it was hard won. As a child, my stuffed animals were my children, with feelings, in need of cuddling, and deserving of apologies if you sat on parts of their bodies.
From middle school to graduate school, I cared for infants, multiples, and birthday parties full of toddlers.
Holding her felt instinctive, my love for was instantaneous, and even my maternal anxiety set in that first night in a terrifying nightmare. And then, for that first week, we tried breastfeeding. I saw swollen, bleeding nipples everywhere: in my miniature cranberry muffin see below! I dreamt that my nipples were elastic and that Nava could stretch them like pieces of gum. And when I filled up my water bottle, all I could see were my collection bottles filling up with breast milk.
I could hear my breast pump talk. I had become desperate and deranged. When Nava cried, I felt dread. I felt fear. More than a few times, we cried together. My lactation consultant gave me the names of several local breastfeeding support groups where I could find support among other moms struggling to breastfeed.
I rolled my eyes inside and around my head imagining a bunch of emotional wrecks sitting in a circle with their engorged boobs hanging down to their belly buttons as some stranger with really cold hands grabbed their breasts.
